


Can't Get There From Here

by Sperare



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Calm Down Erik, Canon-Typical Violence, Erik Has Feelings, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, F/M, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Kidnapping, M/M, Past Abuse, Protective Erik, Psychological Trauma, Sentinel/Guide Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-11-18 21:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11298981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sperare/pseuds/Sperare
Summary: After accidentally meeting in Oxford, Erik reluctantly drags Charles, his new Guide, with him on his globe-trotting, Nazi-hunting revenge tour, and Charles slowly but surely realizes that Erik is more than an unfairly attractive, ill-mannered Sentinel interested only in finding and killing the man who murdered his mother.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story... just sort of happened. Over the course of the last two years. I really have no better explanation than that. *facepalm* (Thanks for reading!)
> 
> I've tagged for all things major, I think, but please let me know in the comments if you think something should be added! Also, while this is probably obvious from the Sentinel/Guide tag, there's bonding, and that causes sex, and while both Charles and Erik are enthusiastic about that sex, they're less enthusiastic about being linked together (at least at first).

“I will surely need another drink after this.”

It’s an unseasonably warm night for early November in England, though possibly some of that is due to the alcohol heating his blood. He’s partway in his cups already, and a few drinks more will be enough to finish the night out quite splendidly.

Raven, who is seated across from him, rolls her eyes at his declaration, though it’s less effective than it should be when it’s tempered by the hint of grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “He’s not that bad, Charles.”

“It sounds as though he’s murdering a cat with his mandolin!”

Raven shrugs and grins. “ _You_ wanted a pub with live entertainment.”

“Entertainment! Not… whatever _this_ is.”

There is simply not enough alcohol in the world for this. A friend of a friend of a friend had said they had a friend—or maybe an acquaintance?—playing tonight, and he’d be worth going to see, a right good time for certain, except _this_ is the result, and, really, it’s time for another drink. Bobby—is his name Bobby?—can only be endured through a haze of more alcohol. Or possibly with earplugs.

“I’m getting another.”

Raven just sighs, but her eyes are sparkling, so she can’t be truly frustrated. “I’m not cleaning up after you if you miss the toilet again, understand? Anything related to vomit is _your_ problem.”

Spoilsport. See if he holds _her_ hair back ever again. And, besides, this is surely not nearly enough alcohol for a truly terrible hangover. He’ll just slip up to the bar and collect a bit more, with Jimmy—maybe it’s Jimmy—between songs as he is, lest the tortured waves of musical agony prevent an easy journey across the pub.

“I will bring you another Coke,” he tells Raven really very magnanimously as he heads away, and it is _her_ fault that she is not properly appreciative. Honestly. “Scotch, then.” It’s good to have the order all planned out mentally before you get to the bar. Avoid confusion and all that. “I… will have a scotch.” And it will be lovely. “Scotch, scotch, scotch— _hel_ lo _!”_

As lovely as alcohol is or might be, the man sitting alone at the corner of the bar, sweeping his eyes over the room, is ten times lovelier. Though, if the man were _combined_ with scotch, it would be a particularly fortuitous happening indeed. Surely he would be amenable to having a drink bought for him. And some conversation? Conversation is always excellent. The primary courting method of homo sapiens, and it has been effective for years and years and years, and it will surely not fail tonight, when—when—

Talking. Yes. They’ll do some. He will do that with this ridiculously attractive man.

It doesn’t make sense, how attractive this man is. And— _oh_ , maybe that drink won’t be necessary after all, because the man at the bar has caught his eye, and he appears every bit as interested, and, that being the case, a social bribe is probably not necessary to get his attention. _Very_ interesting. There are theories about this, about courting rituals and alcohol’s place in society and—

The man has really very lovely eyes.

And—And—his hip to shoulder ratio is practically impossible, probably sinful, and the way he _walks_ —like he’s forcing the ground down under his command— _definitely_ is sinful, or maybe that’s only the thoughts that the movement is inspiring—

Hmm. It might be time to sober up now.

The benefit of telepathy is that, while it might not cure a hangover, he can easily pull himself back out of a drunken haze. It’s all a matter of mental control, and he’s the very definition of a creature of the mind, thank you very much.

But… maybe not quite time to sober up yet. If the man wants sober company, _that_ will be the time. But not before then. This—this warm, hazy glow of attraction—is simply too pleasant. 

“Hello, my friend!”

The man stops in front of him, staring at him unabashedly, though he’s not nearly besotted enough. He looks a little panicked, to be honest. Definitely drawn in—always nice to have the entirety of someone’s attention—but too focused for any easy sort of conversation, let alone the sort of relaxed fun that will hopefully be taking place. That ought to change. It _needs_ to change. Only… once this man is in his bed—that is—well, he’s never had a problem saying goodbye in the morning _before_ , but this man—this man is really quite—quite—

“Fuck—you—we… we need to get out of here,” the man says, voice jerking over the words. His eyes cast about the room, lighting on every exit. Even his hands can’t relax, compulsively clenching into fists.

The man got the first two words in the correct order, at least. That’s a start. “Is that an invitation?”

“What?” The man jolts his gaze back. “What? That’s—do you honestly not feel it?” His eyes narrow, crinkling at the corners, and his mouth slowly thins out as he apparently finds something that doesn’t please him. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes. That is, I’m working on it.”

“Of all the damn times—“ Pausing, the man scrubs a hand over his face: a long-fingered, very elegant hand, well-formed and strong. Hey now, no, wait a moment, he’s surely not meant to be exasperated. He’s supposed to be smiling, becoming increasingly amenable to the prospect of getting to know each other a bit better. “I can’t—“

Whatever it is he can’t do, he doesn’t seem to want to take the time to elaborate on it: with one more glance to the side, he grabs a hold of Charles’ arm and, curling his fingers in tight, yanks him toward the side of the room. It’s a crowded room, and they receive more than one glare on the way as they knock into a few people, but the man stares down any contenders with his frankly _far_ superior glower. The edges of the room are little better than the middle, unfortunately, but the man makes headway there too, steering them toward—

Oh, they’re going toward the door. That’s not quite right. The man is supposed to buy him a drink first. It’s simply not done, manhandling a person out of the pub before buying him a drink.

“Now, hold on—!”

But the man keeps on tugging, offering nothing more than a gritted-out, “Quiet” as they slip out the door and into the street. It’s not too busy a street: the Half Moon is a bit out of the city center, and the traffic starts to thin out this way. Though, as it’s Saturday night, there are still passerbys aplenty.

“I can’t just leave my sister in there!”

“I _said_ ‘quiet.’”

Yes, he did. That doesn’t mean he’s going to be obeyed. As bloody good-looking as this man might be, that doesn’t make him king of the world.

“And _I_ said _no_!”

By this time they’ve headed off around the corner of a side street, where they’ll be reasonably safe from any prying eyes. That—perhaps he ought to be more worried about that? Whoever this man is, he doesn’t seem quite _normal_ , and that, combined with the odd sensation that’s building—what _is_ that feeling?

It started up deep in his gut, and at first it had seemed like attraction. Just a little heat at the sight of a beautiful man standing at the bar. But now it’s begun to spread down through his legs, tingling in his nerves and generating the desire to squirm. Even more problematic, it’s making him want to squirm _toward_ the man. And—not move away. Ever. The idea of letting him go in the morning—it was never a problem with anyone else, but _this_ man….

“Who _are_ you?” he slurs, dragging his heels and twisting against the man’s hold. It doesn’t do any good, since his body has mutinied and seems to be intent on tumbling in closer, but the effort should at least get the point across.

If it does, the man doesn’t care.

“Someone who, up until two minutes ago, was _not_ a damned Sentinel.”

Sentinel? No, that’s not possible. If this man were a Sentinel, then he’d need a Guide, and it’s a well-known fact that newly imprinted Sentinel/Guide pairs can barely think through the need to have sex—

Oh.

_Oh._

Time to funnel that drunkenness off now, yes?

It takes a few seconds, but after a couple of short breaths, during which he closes his eyes and pushes his fingers to his temples, he’s able to siphon away the dizziness and the pleasant haze of warmth.

Might have been better if he’d left that, actually: the frankly roaring inferno that takes its place is far worse.

“Fuck. No, this is—I can’t fucking _imprint._ I’m going to be a professor!” This isn’t right at all. And he’s going to take a step back, really, he is, but his legs don’t seem to want to work. “A professor of genetics! You—who are _you_?”

If the man is surprised by Charles being noticeably less drunk than he was moments before, he’s not showing it. Though, the man knows he’s a mutant—couldn’t be otherwise, if they’ve imprinted—so maybe that’s something he just takes in his stride. Whoever he is, this man will also be a mutant, and—that’s actually quite fantastic. Later, they’ll have to talk about that.

Later.

Much later.

“We can’t be—we _can’t_ —“ But it sounds pleading, even to his own ears, and the man must think similarly, because he only raises his eyebrow and nods in Charles’ general direction. Embarrassingly, that’s rather effective: as the nod seems to indicate, the way his own body is drawing closer to the man is ample proof that, actually, yes, this _is_ real. _Very_ real.

And as nonchalant as the man is acting? His hands are balled up and shaking, and he has one foot forward, very obviously ready to spring at any moment. Even the scant few inches between them is too much. “My place or yours?” the man grinds out, shaking his head, probably to clear it. The way he kneads at his temples with his fingers just confirms that.

“I live with my sister.” Which is really about the best explanation he can get out when—oh, really, are those his hands? They’ve somehow found their way to the man’s chest, where he’s flattening them out, flexing his fingers against what is a rather nice set of pectorals. At least if he had to turn out to be a Guide, he managed to imprint on someone gorgeous.

Bloody hell, a _Guide_.

He can’t be a _Guide_.

Being a Guide—that would mean giving up teaching, would mean working for the government. Not in laboratory capacity either. The unique bond between Sentinel and Guide makes such a team a fantastic asset, usually in warzones or in some other sort of capacity with a high chance of physical danger. Nothing at all like the comfort of his lab where he might cause a few explosions on an especially bad day, but where he’d never see anything like a bullet bearing down on him.

“I can’t—I can’t—“ But it turns into a high-pitched whine, and the man’s face crumples into worry—and pity, that’s very clearly pity—at the sound. 

“I know. It’s—it’s all right.” Awkwardly, the man reaches out, and… it’s good, _fantastically_ good, when he reels Charles in, holding him firmly against his chest and breathing out into his hair. It isn’t _enough_ , but it’s good. “We’ll go back to my place. There’s no stopping this now. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The heat in his stomach and the intense desire to crawl up inside this man and _be_ a part of him has reached an almost overwhelming level. If there was ever a chance of walking away—and from what studies have shown, there wasn’t—it’s gone now. “What’s your name?”

“Erik.”

A very nice name. “I’m Charles Xavier. And I—damn it, please tell me you live close?” Doesn’t sound like it, going by the accent, but maybe he’s a student. “ _Erik_.” It plays nicely on the tongue, sharp and crisp and just as commanding as the man himself is.

But the man has already pulled away and grabbed Charles’ hand, tugging them both back out onto the main street, moving them along at a good clip that burns off a tiny bit of the tension between them, turning it into burning muscles instead when Charles has to stretch to keep up with the man’s long stride. “Hotel is on Broad Street. You know where that is?”

“I live here. Doctoral student.”

A grunt is his only response. That’s all right, though, because it’s beginning to look like he’s going to need to use all his air to keep up with the man, who is lengthening his stride even more and hurrying them down the street and back up into town. Their strides aren’t well matched, given the difference in their heights, and he has to yank the man back more than once, earning a frown for his efforts. Too bad. Hurrying him along so quickly that he face plants into the ground is not an effective method for getting him into bed.

“I can’t be a Guide,” he huffs out after several minutes of rushing along. Though he’s a bit out of breath, his mind is running too quickly to clamp down on the questions. “I don’t _want_ to join the government.”

“That makes two of us then,” the man snaps. “Hurry up. If you have breath enough to talk, you can move faster.”

“Fuck you!” he snarls, but he does increase the pace of his step.

The man is completely unmoved. “That’s the idea.”

A damn good idea it is too. Though, cobblestone streets? Not so much. They’re bloody hard to run over, and by the time they get to Broad Street and breeze into the pastry shop that passes for the downstairs of the hotel, ignoring the stare from the woman at the front desk, his feet are aching and his heart is nearly bursting. The latter is not necessarily from exertion, but more from the increasing ache of being near the man without touching him properly. Though, it’s all starting to condense into one big ball of need, so what does it matter? Need to breathe, need to touch….

A couple of flights of stairs, and—the man never touches the lock on the door, but only waves his hand over it before it’s opening, letting them into the room beyond. Astounding. Whatever his mutation is, it’s fantastic. Later. They’ll talk later, but for the time being it—oh, that’s quite good: the man gets a hand under his thigh and hoists him up, up— _up._ Pressing him against the wall by the door, immediately diving in and latching his mouth onto any piece of skin he can find—neck, shoulder— _perfect._

“You—you—Erik? Yes, _yes—_ ”

The man growls low deep in his throat and attacks the buttons under his fingers. Turnabout is fair play, thankfully, and though managing any sort of coordination is nothing short of a miracle, he— _oh—_ do _try_ for some coordination, that’s it. He digs his fingers into the soft fabric of the black turtleneck that the man is wearing, twisting the material into soft swirls. There’s a leather jacket in the way, but the man obligingly shrugs out of that after a few good tugs on the hem of the turtleneck underneath. Too many layers, when there’s skin to be seen. But the man lifts his arms and allows the shirt to be pulled over his head and tossed aside.

Gorgeous.

Being a Guide, having _this_ , whatever it is—there will be time enough for terror later on. But, for now, there’s a gorgeous man in front of him, and the way he _smells_ —just a hint spicy and sweaty, and this man apparently wants him just as much as he wants this man. Erik. Erik, he’d said. _Erik_ is very enthusiastic, popping buttons smoothly and—the man—Erik—the—doesn’t matter, so long as he keeps pushing at Charles’ shirt, shoving if off Charles’ shoulders once it’s unbuttoned…

 _Yes, Yes—_ keep on like that, with the man attacking the curve of his neck, setting down teeth into the skin and nipping, switching over to licking when he feels a sharp flinch from the muscles under his mouth. Both are good—that stinging hurt, and the warm, wet heat that quiets it down.

“Yes, don’t stop.”

Not that it looks like he’s planning to stop. He lets out a strangled grunt when Charles threads a hand through his hair and pushes forward, slotting their hips together and immediately setting up a rhythm in which they rise and fall together. Damn drywall is taking a beating, with the way the man keeps on thumping him against it. Strangely heady, being manhandled. With women—they’re so seldom larger than he is, but a man… A man like this one, who can dominate him like this, make him feel so totally _owned._

“I want—I _want_ —”

The man pulls back and looks him in the eye. Oh. He’s wrecked. His pupils are blown, and his face is almost desperate, eyes locked in on Charles and tracking his every move to the point where his gaze hungrily sucks up every twitch and shiver. His hands flex in time with both their breaths, which seem to have synchronized. “What do you need?” the man asks breathlessly. “I’ll give it to you. Tell me what you need.”

And he sounds so honest when he says it: more sincere than some wedding vows, though gauging that based on his mother and Kurt probably isn’t the best idea.

But still, the man is offering him _this_ , and it’s what he _needs_ , and—

He whines high in his throat, tipping his head back and banging it against the wall, catching it on the edge of a picture frame that, by some miracle, doesn’t go crashing to the floor. Pain blooms from the spot, but it’s such a minor thing, when other aspects of the situation are _so_ much more important. “I don’t know. Please—“ The ceiling is bending and twisting and if he didn’t know better, he’d say it’s melting, because _he_ is certainly burning. He can’t _think._

“You’re fine. You’re _perfect_ ,” the man bites out against his collarbone. “I’ll take care of you.”

And he’s making inroads into keeping that promise: he slots one hand down to Charles’ hip, gripping there so firmly that there will likely be finger marks, while his other hand seeks out the small of Charles’ back. One quick twist yanks them both away from the wall and sends them careening toward the bed. It’s not overly large: it’s a lightly colored wooden double, draped in a red patterned cloth that matches the window drapings. For all that matters, though, this could be the wedding suite.

Sort of is, actually.

Charles bounces once when he lands on his back, and that’s about all the time allowed before the man clambers on top of him, pressing him down with his warm weight. It’s safe and electrifying—being owned in the best way—and he grins and slips his hands around behind the man, one spanning a perfect, broad shoulder and the other sneaking down under his waistband—cotton briefs—to get a tactile sneak-peak at whatever is hiding beneath those trousers.

Greetings. Nice to meet you. It’s Christmas come early.

No, the man isn’t perfect. Too rugged, not enough softness. Skin is a hint rough, especially on his hands, where the skin is cracking and in need of cream, and there are calluses on his fingers. Sharpened facial features too—chiseled, yes, but severe if pulled into a glare. He isn’t perfect. But— _look_ at him. He’s a bloody picture, the kind of good-looking that draws stares on the street and commands a room, and might well just be better for _not_ being perfect. 

A little more of that focus, then, right where it needs to be: stretching up, he catches the man’s lips in a kiss, and when the man pushes down into it, Charles is forced downward, back toward the pillow. The man drops to his elbows, resting his weight half on Charles and half on the bed, but bracketing Charles with every indication of intentionality.

No need. Any desire to run is non-existent.

“More,” he mumbles into the man’s mouth, opening up when the man bites at his lower lip, releasing it with a “pop” before licking his way further inside. It’s filthy and messy and absolutely perfect. “Fewer clothes.”

The request is quickly met with compliance and—oh, that’s—how very—how— _how_?

The metal button on his trousers and the zip seem to have come undone of their own accord. It’s no hardship, and in a display of enthusiasm he toes off his shoes and socks, knocking them both to the floor, and watching as his own trousers peel down his legs, dragging his underwear along with them. _That_ has certainly never happened before. “How are you—?”

“Mmm. I control metal,” the man mutters out against his neck, licking a long stripe from collarbone up to jaw line.

“Oh. Good. That’s amazing. Oh, that— _that_ is amazing—“ Though, “that” now refers to the man’s sudden fascination with the dip under Charles’ jaw, just below his ear. It’s always been an erogenous zone, but this man is demonstrating exactly how quickly he’s devised new and delightful ways to exploit it, all while shucking his own trousers, leaving both of them stark naked.

As studied as the man is on the area under Charles’ ear, he makes time to move lower, still under the jaw, but this time higher on the throat, over the—

Oh.

The man must feel him freeze, because he pauses, drawing back a few inches. “All right?”

There’s no chill in the room, but he shudders, just a little. “Are you going to…?”

Another kiss, high on his throat. “It’d be worse if I put it off.”

It’s true. That tiny little gland is the cause of all of this. It’s dormant in ninety-five percent of the population. Dormant in _everyone_ , actually, until the point when it’s not, at least for that five percent. There are theories. Lots of them. But the point is, something in that gland activates and swells up when a Guide meets his or her Sentinel. A compatible Sentinel. Something like that. There are theories that suggest everyone—or anyone with an X-gene—has the capability for this to happen, if they meet the right match. It doesn’t—right now, doesn’t matter. It’s what caused the need back in the pub. And until they finish this up and tie themselves together, it’s going to keep on pumping out the cocktail of hormones that’s making them crazy. That’s all that matters. Either the man bites him or they’ll keep being driven to fuck until they’re both too sex-mad to notice what they’re doing, and at that point the bite will happen anyway out of pure instinct.

“Fuck. Just do it. Get on with it.” Get to the good part. The bite is no good, and thinking it through, if this could be stopped—if the biting weren’t inevitable, just the sex would be nice, thank you. No biting needed.

Not an option, unfortunately.

Knowing that regrettably doesn’t do much to dull the startling pain that lances down his neck when the man bears down.

Yelping, he tries to pull back, but the man has sunk his teeth in good and deep and, as is supposed to happen, instinctively pulling away when the pain hits only digs the bite in deeper, penetrating right down into the gland itself and breaking open the mess of bonding hormones that will finalize this up.

This is for life.

Fuck.

What are they going to—how will they—but rational thought has fled. There’s the pain, and the man smells like a dream, and he’s solid, and beautiful, astounding, and, “Touch me. _Now._ ”

Still lapping at the sluggishly bleeding bond bite—it will scar—the man hums in assent and thrusts his hand down between them, curling his hand around Charles’ cock. Perfect. _Finally_. Only—they need some sort of slick, and this hadn’t been the plan for tonight: there’s none in the pocket of his trousers, but maybe the bedside drawer…?

Though he squirms minimally, the man must get the point—and he’s a damn sight better prepared. What does it say, that he has a tiny tube of lube in his trouser pocket? Was he hoping for this? Are there others? What if there _are_ others? Some pretty girl or boy somewhere, who’s waiting for the man at home.

“Why—?“

A surprisingly gentle kiss is dropped on his cheek: the man’s stubble rasps against his skin, burning slightly and prompting him to squirm. “No one else.” Said from very close, against his jaw. The words whisper out, tickling. “But sometimes sex loosens lips, and there’s information that I need.”

“From me?” It sounds stupid the minute it rolls off his tongue, but he can’t take it back, and so he makes up for it by shifting, rocking his hips against the man’s stomach.

He’s stilled by a hand on his hip. “No.”

“Oh.”

The hand turns gentle, stroking a thumb over the swell of his side. “Spread your legs.” 

All right. That’s an excellent plan. Raven says he’s easy, and his legs _do_ drop open with astounding alacrity, but this is different. Not _easy_ , but more _right_ , and the man is quite good with his hands, smoothing them down the insides of Charles’ thighs and squeezing, kneading at the muscles. “Has anyone told you you’re beautiful?” the man asks, tilting his head and regarding Charles from under his lashes. Though, his attention is mostly down near his hands, one of which has pulled away long enough to catch a glob of lube when the tube—metal—squirts it out into his palm.

“Yes. But you sound better saying it.”

That earns a laugh. “Smart ass.”

Goodness, there are quite a lot of teeth to that smile. But it suits him, somehow. “Stop teasing. Biting doesn’t stop the need. You know that.”

“I _do_.” As solemnly as he says it, one would think what’s coming is a sacred duty. No complaints there: it’s always nice to be worshiped, and the man is regarding him very intensely indeed. But—intense is good. Intense is _fantastic_ , when it means a hand on his cock, slippery and stroking him up and erect. They’ll complete this, and then they’ll talk, work out how they’re supposed to navigate this new a bizarre turn of events.

The man’s other hand—it slips lower, smearing wetness down his crack. Just a hint of teasing and then…

The man pokes the tip of his finger into Charles’ hole, searching for give. He doesn’t loosen at first, but—can’t help arching his back against the touch, groaning loud and helpless and throwing his head back until he finally relaxes and the man’s finger sinks all the way inside.

“Yes. More.”

The man exhales sharply and leans down, pressing a kiss to Charles’ stomach. And when he glances up—that look heats the air between them. “What do you say?” But the words come out heavy, almost drugged, and the sweat on the man’s brow gives him away.

“ _Please_.” He will beg. He will beg a thousand times over if it gets him what he wants.

“Of course.” It’s as good as a promise: one long lick over his inner thigh, and that finger crooks at the same time, dragging a cry out of him and setting the man to grinning again. “Very nice.”

“Please, _please_.”

“So cultured, but you beg like you own the trade.”

That shouldn’t be a compliment, but it’s obviously meant as one. Hard not to take it as one too, when it’s getting him what he wants. Trading in manipulative words and seduction is a fine thing when it means the man adds another finger and scissors them both, opening him up while Charles splays his legs wider and reaches up to brace against the headboard with one hand while the other skims any part of the man that he can reach. His arm, in this case, where Charles’ fingers can tease lightly over the dusting of reddish hair there.

It’s almost more surprising than being fingered open when the man turns his free palm upward and catches the hand touching his arm. He turns it, cupping it in his own before twining their fingers together.

Breathing is impossible against that, and against those clever fingers, and the blood high on his neck. He’s dizzy, but sorting out why is past possibility, and the most that he’s capable of is lying back and groaning, staring up at the ceiling, occasionally glancing back down to catch a kaleidoscope of colors when the room spins. The man’s eyes are there, though, rotating color too—green and gray, a bit blue—but blown wide with lust. 

Then, another finger. A slight burn, and Charles whines, but he’s shushed and kissed, their chests brushing together and smearing sweat between them. The man doesn’t have much hair on his chest, but the little that he does have crackles sensation against Charles’ own skin, and he twitches, bumping into the man and trying to clutch at more of that delicious feeling.

“Soon, all right?”

“ _Now_.”

“Bossy, aren’t you?”

Yes. And it’s only fair. If he’s taking it up the ass, why shouldn’t he get to set the pace? No one knows his body better than he does.

Saying so is tempting, but a filthy look works just as well—somewhere between angry and lust-clogged—for the time being. Better yet to push up into the fingers, to meet the twisting and stretching with his own frantic little stutters of his hips. 

“I’m going to—“

“ _Hurry up.”_

The man chokes out a laugh again, curling his free hand around Charles’ cock and giving him one good stroke.

Oh, yes, _yes, yesyesyes—_

“Easy. I’ll give you what you need.”

Yes. Good. With the man lining himself up, and there’s that stretch, sharp and alive, too much and not enough, but the realest thing that Charles has ever had much chance to experience. Nothing else pulls him down directly into the moment quite like this, where every nerve and muscle and sinew is alive and feeling. 

His legs are pushed back further against his chest, then hooked up over the man’s shoulders as the man pushes forward, seating himself firmly—and, finally, completely—before their bodies are nearly flush together. They’re sharing air, which is good, since Charles can’t get enough of his own.

“I—‘’ The man sounds half awe-struck, and he looks it too, skimming his fingers over the bite mark, and pulling back to stare, almost disbelieving, at the stain of blood on his fingertips. There’s a flash of something darker—uncertainty—but it flickers and disappears under the lust. “All right?” 

“Yes.”

The man takes that for the confirmation that it’s meant to be and, with a grunt, begins to move. He feels huge, and the stretch is a little much at first, but Charles loosens quickly, and what was at first sharp panting evens out into moans. In and out, in and out, raking over that precise spot each time, and lighting up the space of their nerves with lightning. If they were to share minds—to open and let their minds meld—

Not yet. Not a stranger.

It’s good anyway. That delicious friction, their hands still tangled, and the hand that isn’t—the man’s hand drops down and takes Charles’ cock, jacking it in time with his thrusts. A generous lover, it would seem, willing to give pleasure, and it isn’t proper to reject a gift this nice, thank you, yes, this is quite perfect—“Don’t stop—“

But he doesn’t. Thrust after thrust, until the movements begin to grow increasingly erratic, and the rhythm of both their breaths begins to falter and deteriorate into gasps and grunts and messy swapped kisses with gulps for air in between. The heat and the sweat has made a mess, and the sheets will be ruined, if not by that than by his own hand, which has escaped from the headboard to tear at the bedding instead, yanking it from where it was formerly tucked neatly.

When the man comes, he does it with a sharp grunt and a final thrust. There’s a quick contortion on his face, and he bites his lip, holding in the sounds, but he can’t hide precisely how magnificent he is like that. It’s glorious to feel this dominated, pinned down by the man above him, and, in allowing himself to be so controlled, drawing out the sheer ecstasy on the man’s face. A little like being an artist, creating something this beautiful.

As he comes, the man holds himself screwed in as tightly as he can get, but once the shocks have mostly ended he falls forward, catching himself on his one free forearm. Their linked hands are trapped on the other side of their bodies, and the man squeezes firmly just before he tips to the side, letting the bed take his weight and freeing up his other arm to reach for Charles’ cock and return to working him off.

It doesn’t take long. Kisses at his neck, and the hand on his cock, and sensitized from the very thorough fucking—there, just like that, just like—oh, fuck, he can’t even think, can’t even—

 _Yes_.

The man’s face flashes briefly above him, kissing the edges of his lips, but Charles’ body is loosening, sinking, sinking, sinking….

Everything relaxes at once, and the darkness closes overhead, tempered by the sweetness of fingertips on his cheek and a kiss to his forehead.

“Sleep for now.”

Yes. And so he will.


	2. Chapter 2

The man in his bed is the kind of beautiful that never lasts in lives riddled with the agony that Erik has seen. Lips like those—in the camps, someone would have had him out back behind the buildings sucking them off before he could have thought to protest. Maybe, if he’d been lucky, he would have become someone’s favorite—not that favoritism that poisonous is necessarily better.

Schmidt’s favoritism, for instance, meant an intimate acquaintance with pain. Ten seconds to start screaming early on, but, toward the end, nearly unlimited endurance when Schmidt sliced him up with metal.

Schmidt had been proud.

Someone might have been proud of a man like the one in the bed in front of him too, smart as he is—student at Oxford, he’d said—and beautiful like Erik never was: sweet and soft, pretty. Schmidt wasn’t inclined toward men, thankfully, but there had been others as sadistic as he was, albeit in different ways. This man would have lost the sweetness of his face after a few weeks in the camps. He’d have likely lost his life shortly thereafter, unless he’d learned to harden up his outlook. They’ve been together only a short time, but already it’s apparent that whoever this man is, he _cares_.

That’s dangerous.

Ha. Yes, dangerous. Dangerous, like being tied to a life hunting Nazi war criminals. What a life this man has earned himself: the life of a Guide condemned to following a Sentinel about the world, hunting down the scum of humanity—and it won’t be otherwise. What needs to be done won’t be halted on account of one man, no matter how unfair it is that he’s been dragged into this.

Millions have died. In the scheme of things, what is one more life lost in the course of obtaining the dead some measure of justice? If this man is the sacrifice to that cause, then so be it.

Right?

But… there will be some measure of safety. He can be protected. Somehow, that feels more imperative, now that the overwhelming desire has simmered to more manageable levels, and Erik is able to calmly watch the man’s chest rise and fall. It’s a good view from where Erik is seated on the edge of the bed, legs slung over the side and toward the part of the room where the windows look out over the street. The man is stark naked—they both are—and the morning light is already beginning to peek into the room, but the windows are high enough up that no one will see, and the ache of guilt is too persistent to prompt any movement for the sake of something so trivial as dressing. For whatever reason, it seems entirely essential that he’s close enough to touch when the man wakes.

Though, there’s no harm in helping that along: extending his arm to the side, he strokes the backs of his fingers down the side of the man’s face. Even in his sleep, the man appears to understand that the touch comes from someone who isn’t inclined to harm him: he smiles faintly and nuzzles into Erik’s fingers, burrowing the side of his face further forward across the pillow.

It’s heartbreaking, this level of trust—because the man shouldn’t trust like this. And knowing that—there is a tiny, broken kernel of thought that insists this is all a mistake. It isn’t fair that life would set up something this beautiful, just to toss it into a mess of revenge and blood-stained hands.

And, sooner or later, this man _will_ see evidence of that blood.

Scarcely eight feet away, there’s a gun in the drawer of the desk. The wardrobe holds another. There are three knives in the carry-bag, and one more in the drawer of the side table. The man is sleeping in a veritable armory.

And there’s a killer in bed with him.

“You need to get up,” Erik murmurs, stroking his fingers through the man’s hair. “We have a lot to discuss.” They’ll need to make preparations to leave town. The trip has proved a fruitful one, with one aging German professor who was… not quite _willing_ to talk about what his brother was doing during the war—a brother to whom he sent funds—but who was eventually persuaded to do so. Not much more of a lead on Schmidt, but at least a lead on a lead, perhaps. It might be time to visit a few contacts who have settled in Budapest of all places for the time being.

And what a lovely trip _that_ will be. Just a nice little jaunt to an area of the world that’s overrun by Communists—but that’s the kind of area that marinates the sort of men who have the information he needs: it’s the perfect place to exploit those who can’t do better for themselves, and it also has the benefit of providing a location where no one looks twice at men with a bit of a record. Not necessarily Nazis, but a few old “friends” of Erik’s….

At the touch the man sighs and wrinkles his nose, but he’s clearly drawing closer to consciousness, and a few more strokes do eventually prompt him to open his eyes. He’ll need to learn to wake more quickly: he’s vulnerable like this, and… damn it, it’s probably some sort of sin to think of dragging this man to meet with contacts in a Communist-run city. But it’s necessary, and it’s isn’t as though he’s a child: he can be taught what to expect and, in the meantime, he can be watched and guarded. They’ll rent a room in a good, rich area of town, where the man can stay and entertain himself. Taking him to meetings would be helpful, yes—having a Guide is practically a trump card—but it’s more important that he’s safe, and for the time being that will be accomplished by keeping him as far away from the hornet’s nest as possible.

“Mmm?” A sliver of blue appears as the man cracks his eyes open, and though he rolls over onto his back, he gives no indication that he’s motivated to do more than examine Erik through half-opened eyes. “Mmmmm?” he slurs again, poking a foot forward and out from under the covers to push against Erik’s hip. Contact made, he flexes his toes, digging them into the skin and kneading a bit like an especially enthusiastic cat. “G’morning.”

Is it? But Erik braces his hand on the mattress and twists his back to more fully face the man, leaving his legs to continue hanging off the side of the bed. No reason to press closer than necessary—not when there’s no telling what reaction that would gain. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

Ah, perhaps not: the question draws a frown, which scrunches up the skin of the man’s forehead and prompts him to wrinkle his nose. Or it does until he remembers—or that’s the easiest theory, anyway. Not much else would engender a look of such pure panic, or shoot him upright in bed as though he’s been given a jolt of electricity straight to the spine.

“ _No_.”

If only it were that easy. “’No,’ you don’t remember?”

The blood is rapidly draining from the man’s face, though that’s hardly the point of greatest note: that honor easily belongs to the obscenely spectacular finger-shaped bruises that curl over his hipbones. “I need—fuck, I need to go. This isn’t—I can’t—“ He stops, running his hands first over his face, and, when that isn’t sufficient, up into his hair. The motion leaves it sticking up in disturbed tufts, but the man pays that no heed. To his credit, though, by the time he drops his hands back to the bed, he’s reeled himself in remarkably well. “Look,” he says, sucking in a deep breath and biting at the edge of his lip until the color drains out of it. “I’m sure that what happened was a mistake. You don’t want this any more than I do, and I’m going to… go along home now—oh, shit, _Raven_!”

Raven? Whoever or whatever that is, it works the man back up into a panic, and he nearly dives off the bed, springing for his trousers.

It won’t matter. There is no recorded case of the link between a Guide and Sentinel being broken after the bond bite occurs. The man is right, though: this _shouldn’t_ have happened.

To hell with this whole mess. If the man thinks he’s the only one who’s been wronged in this situation, he’s sadly mistaken. To be linked to a vulnerable, soft academic— _neither_ of them has gotten an especially good deal. As beautiful as the man may be, that doesn’t make up for the now present necessity of dragging him around the world like an annoyingly heavy and talkative piece of baggage.

“Sit down,” he snaps when the man tries to tug his trousers back onto his body. “You won’t make it two steps outside that door before panic sets in for both of us and I either chase you down or you come running back. Make this easier on both of us and stop denying reality.”

When the man was sleeping, suppressing reality was still possible: the way the man had been lying before, the side of his neck with the bite had been down toward the mattress and hidden in the pillow, but standing up as he is now, it’s splashed into the line of vision of anyone who cares to look. Like any bite, it’s red and puffy, with obvious teeth marks and broken skin that will scar. Positioned as the mark is just under his jaw and toward the top of his throat, there won’t be much beyond cosmetics, scarves, and high-collared shirts that will hide it. There’s certainly nothing that will disguise it permanently.

Not that the man won’t give it his best try. He’s the type for it: brilliant enough to rationalize, stubborn enough to refuse to accept, and naïve enough not to realize that nothing he tries will matter.

And beautiful. Stunningly beautiful, blinking owlishly in the morning light, one leg of his trousers halfway drawn onto his body, and his limbs shaking almost imperceptibly. It quivers his skin and—fuck, this isn’t going to help, thinking this way. Thinking on how the man’s small stature is especially obvious now when he’s naked and shaking and half swallowed by the room. But—damn it, he’s strong too, if he’s unwilling to visibly break down. Most people would have crumpled in a situation like this, but this man hasn’t submitted to the panic he’s obviously feeling.

Interesting.

And problematic. _A good mate_ —but that’s his body talking. Bravery is all well and good, but that won’t make this man any less a liability.

“Sit down.” Said more evenly this time—as it should have been previously. Softening isn’t an action that a past in Nazi Germany drills into a man, but… none of this is the man’s fault. Treating him as though he’s the one who has erred will only drive him further into a state of panic, and that’s the last thing that would be helpful. If the man runs out of here in a moment of emotion, every damn person in this place will know there’s been a bonding. That means a report to the government—and _that_ isn’t acceptable. Coaxing the man back to bed is a small thing in comparison to the trouble that would plummet down onto them if the government got a hold of this.

Plus, this man _could_ be an asset. Talk him down into a better temper, find out more about who he is—Charles Xavier, he’d said—what he does—student—and what his mutation is. He _must_ have one, if he’s imprinted, and there’s a chance that it could be useful.

Or there’s a chance that it could be damaging: regardless, the man—best to begin thinking of him as Charles—has not yet relinquished his trousers, but has begun clutching them tightly enough to crease the fabric with the strength of his grip. And he has quite an impressive glare too.

“You know as well as I do that running is pointless. _Sit down_ , and we’ll discuss how to… _manage_ this.”

There’s a brief few seconds where it appears that the man is going to throw caution to the wind and simply charge out the door regardless of common sense, but once he tears his gaze away from the door his expression changes from one of longing to a harder, more determined façade. Too bad that’s probably all it is: just a smokescreen. Ten minutes down the road, it may disintegrate into renewed panic and restart this whole debacle all over again.

“I—“ The man— _Xavier_ , damn it, at least call him by his last name—sucks down a deep breath, but he does finally make a little progress, stepping back away from the door. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced. I’m Charles Xavier.”

“So you said.”

Oh. All right, perhaps not the best answer, or so says the narrowed-eyed glare that Xavier is leveling at him. But this is—to hell with it, what does one even _say_ in a mess like this? “I’m Erik Lehnsherr.” _That_ , apparently. At least it’s a start.

Xavier settles a little at the offer of a name, and while he hasn’t relaxed much at all, he gives in and turns away from the door completely. Donning his trousers—somewhat a pity, but probably for the best, since Xavier naked would have been a distraction—he staggers over to the bed and settles himself somewhat gingerly down upon the edge of it. Fair enough: after last night he can’t be exactly comfortable sitting down.

“German?”

Anglicizing the name’s pronunciation stops most people from immediately making the association, but Xavier has to go and prove himself the exception. There’s always the option of lying and brushing the topic aside, but it’s not a secret so much as it’s simply uncomfortable, and it’s bound to come up eventually anyway. They may as well exchange personal details now and get it out of the way. “I was.”

“Was?”

Any other occasion, and this sort of oversight from a bed partner would be deplorable: one would think that circumcision would be a little obvious, given the pursuits in which they were engaged. But… Xavier can’t be expected to have done much conscious examination last night, as addled as he was—as they _both_ were.

Nice to know Xavier isn’t simply stupid, though: at the first sight of the numerical tattoo, he straightens up, bracing himself with one hand on the bed, and biting at the inside of his cheek. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

But unlike most people, he doesn’t stare, and when Erik turns his wrist back over and tucks the sight away, Xavier easily chooses to meet his eyes. Not many people tend to do that. For a nation that fought the Nazis, people are surprisingly unable to face the victims of a regime that they helped to topple. There’s guilt in how most people view those numbers, and Erik has long since come to expect the discomfort and the furtive glances that tend to follow after the revelation of his tattoo.

“Jewish?” Xavier asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you live in England?”

“No.”

And exactly that quickly they have reached the inevitable roadblock to this conversation. The question Xavier will surely press on to ask—what are you doing here?—is not a query that ought to be answered in a hotel room where Xavier has the option of running out and alerting anyone in hearing distance.

There’s always the possibility that Xavier will handle the answer well, and that he’ll realize that, short of committing murder, there is now no way to disentangle his interests from Erik’s. But that’s a very optimistic hope: reality often looks bleaker, and Xavier presents as the sort of man who would sacrifice his own well being in pursuit of what he considers to be right. If that means turning in his bonded, there’s the possibility that he’ll do it.

And he can’t be allowed to try.

If Xavier can’t see sense….

Then what? Kill him? In the coldest sense it’s logical—Schmidt _must_ die—but a quick look at his face, those rounded cheeks, those _eyes_ , that mouth that ought to be deemed too indecently red for polite company… Kill him? No. Xavier hasn’t done anything to deserve it. This isn’t his fault. So what if he has the look of someone who’s come from luxury? He’s soft, an academic tucked away in his ivory tower, but while that might be reason to resent him, it isn’t reason to blame him.

And damn it all to hell, but just the _thought_ of killing Xavier is sufficient to kick up a storm of sickness in Erik’s gut. It’s just the hormones, screaming that he ought to protect this man, his _mate_ , but it’s damnably impossible to dismiss. And maybe it isn’t just the hormones. Maybe it’s the man himself. Xavier has the kind of look that reels others in, and which simply screams that he needs to be protected, nurtured. He ought to have had better than this, than being bonded to a killer.

What, then? If killing Xavier is not an option, then what _is_? If Xavier refuses to cooperate….

Then he will be _made_ to cooperate. Killing him might be out, but blackmail, extortion, threats—it’s all on the table if that’s what it takes. Every man has a pressure point, and it’s only a matter of stalling this conversation long enough to find out what could be used if the worst case scenario comes to pass and Xavier can’t be made to see sense by gentler means.

Fuck, though, the idea of doing that—gentler means are by far the preferable option.

“If you don’t mind,” he begins, scooping up his own trousers and pretending that he doesn’t see Xavier staring after him, “I’d prefer to continue this conversation elsewhere. You said last night that you had a place?”

Xavier is amenable to that, at least—enthusiastic, actually. Already he’s scrambling for the rest of his clothing. “Yes. With my sister. I should have called her. She’ll be worried.”

For good reason. Her brother has run off and gotten himself bonded to a killer. Worse for her could also be the fact that she’s a potential pressure point. Does Xavier love his sister? It seems as though he does. Threatening her is hardly the most palatable option, but it would be better than threatening Xavier himself.

“We should take your things with us.”

Good point. He’d only planned to be here another couple of days at most, but even the idea of letting Xavier out of his sight for as long as it would take to return to this room sets his heart pumping a little faster. That’s normal for newly bonded Sentinels and Guides, but there’s nothing quite like experiencing it first hand to understand exactly how debilitating normal can be.

“I don’t have much.”

One bag, actually. Xavier’s blinks at the sight of it when it’s tugged out from beneath the bed, scanning about the room in search of more. Unfortunately, there _is_ more, but letting Xavier see the hidden weapons is probably currently inadvisable.

Luckily, civilians are almost always distractible. Retrieving the first knife from the wardrobe and then the next from the drawer is simply a matter of putting his body in the line of sight and tucking the weapons into the bag. Extraction from the wardrobe is a bit trickier, since it’s obvious that there’s nothing hung there, but bending over inside it disguises the action well enough, and by the time he straightens back up and turns, Xavier has set about buttoning up his own shirt with shaking hands.

Nerves, then. He has every right to that, but still, the urge to try to reassure him is strangely persistent.

“Here.” Tossing the bag onto the bed, he crosses the room and bats Charles’ hands out of the way, going to work on the buttons himself. The impression from last night holds true: Xavier is dressed like a stuffy academic, but the image suits him, giving off a warm, approachable air despite his relatively young age. With a face like that, he probably dresses older as a matter of necessity, lest he be mistaken for one of the undergrads. “We’ll figure this out.”

Xavier swallows and nods. “I know."

It doesn’t look like he knows. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m _fine_.”

One does have to admire his determination: as fierce as he looks, proud and irritated, he might just make that true through sheer force of will. “Then I’ll get my bag and we’ll go.”

When no objection is raised, he snags his bag off the bed and then heads for the door. Xavier falls into step, but it’s a dragging gate, and by the time they reach the door he’s pulled back. “Don’t you have anything else?”

“I was here on business.”

Of a sort.

“Still. Surely there’s—“

“That’s it.” Not everyone is a spoiled Oxford schoolboy who can afford a life of luxury. Spoiled. Every move Xavier makes emphasizes that.

And yet…

He’s far from the kind of useless spoiled that so often characterizes the children of the rich. So many of those Nazi war criminals escaped with money, and their families are well off. Background research on the families is part of the process, and more than once he’s encountered the type who languish in their riches. Xavier isn’t that. He may be naïve, but he isn’t useless.

When he moves to open the door, Xavier jumps, lurching forward and almost stumbling. He immediately catches himself at it and pulls back, obviously disconcerted, but the initial reaction to space between them has already been clearly displayed—and Xavier, try as he might, can’t hide that: he wavers for a moment on the balls of his feet, caught between forward and backwards, eyeing first the floor, then Erik.

It should be ridiculous. Instead, it’s completely relatable. Moving away from Xavier seems as daunting as being left behind appears to seem to Xavier. Luckily, there’s an easy enough fix.

“Here,” he says again, extending a hand. At first Xavier simply blinks, confused, eyeing the hand with distrust. But, eventually, he catches on and extends his own hand, curling it tentatively into Erik’s own and allowing himself to be drawn forward toward the door.

It doesn’t work at first. Xavier’s hand is too sweaty, and he stiffens his fingers against the hold, souring the grip to the point where it’s tense and uncomfortable. But they’d worked last night. They’d been perfect, physically speaking. That’s bound to seep back into their interactions eventually—and it does.

A little perseverance and a few more steps toward the door, and the tension drains out of Xavier’s hand: his grip turns almost tentative, though willing enough, and it’s stupid—of course it’s stupid—but that engenders a rush of protective, warm emotion. Xavier doesn’t know what the hell he’s walked into, but he’s following along.

He’s following. Just like that. The naïve fool is _trusting_.

If Xavier is going to trust him—damn it all, Xavier _shouldn’t._ But he _has,_ and it’s bitter, because it could destroy Xavier. Killing something like this, causing it harm—unbelievable, that two minutes ago he was considering eliminating Xavier. His first thoughts upon waking had been correct: Xavier will need to be protected. It was the height of stupidity to imagine that he could ever point a gun at Xavier and actually pull the trigger. It can’t happen, and it won’t. It was a foolish thought, brought on by panic.

Xavier may be an unasked for burden, but he is _Erik’s_.

“Don’t tell the staff what happened,” he says, resting his hand on the doorknob. Xavier needs to know this now, even if he doesn’t yet understand why the secret needs to be kept. “I’m going to pay my bill, we’ll leave, and then we’ll sort this out.”

“We’re going to need to report this eventually,” Xavier murmurs stonily, but he doesn’t appear even remotely eager for that eventuality. Good. A little ingrained hesitancy will make for an easier time convincing him to keep quiet.

“In the middle of a hotel? I have things that need to be seen to first, and so do you. Or do you think your sister would appreciate finding out about this second hand?”

Xavier scowls, obviously irritated by the pedantic tone, but he does nod his acquiescence and give a minute squeeze to Erik’s hand. “Fine.”

Only if “fine” means blue eyes that blaze with a fierce irritation. Xavier has a sweet face, and his eyes are undeniably beautiful, but no one who caught sight of him now would make the mistake of equating those attributes with a lack of a backbone. Naïve? Yes. Foolish, to follow so easily, but not weak. No one weak glares quite this openly at a man who holds a daunting amount of power over him.

Granted, Xavier now holds a truly problematic level of power over _him_ too.

They’re each other’s ball and chain. Almost literally at the moment, hands clasped and movement impeded by the inability to release each other. Who needs a lock when a Sentinel/Guide bond will do just as well?

And so it goes. They make their way down the staircase to the first floor, and though they receive a few side-eyed glances, no one says anything. It’s not ideal to pass themselves off as a simply overly enthusiastic couple—there’s no way that _someone_ didn’t hear them last night—but Xavier plays it well enough, smiling cordially and keeping quiet while Erik settles his bill.

He’s not quite so accommodating once they’re out on the street.

“I have my thesis defense in three months, and this wasn’t supposed to happen. Only five percent of the population ever imprints, and almost always before twenty-five. I’m _twenty-nine_ , and you’re thirty-two, which puts us far outside the realm of statistical probability—“

Jerking Xavier up short, Erik yanks him around until they’re facing each other at a distance that is likely inappropriate on a public street. The level of suspicion on his face feels heavy, but life has made it abundantly clear that it’s safer to have an overabundance of caution than not enough. “How did you know my age?”

Xavier freezes, blue eyes growing almost comically wide. “I…”

Another sharp jerk to Xavier’s hand. “Don’t you dare lie to me.” That might have been said a bit too harshly: a woman passing by looks askance at them, shooting Charles a sympathetic and mildly worried look. Luckily, she only straightens her hat and moves on, heels clicking over the cobblestones a fraction quicker than before.

“Well?”

Well, nothing, if Xavier has his way. Everything about him screams hesitance, most prominently how he ducks backward, tucking his chin down and glaring up from under his eyelashes. “You know I’m a mutant.”

Yes. If he’s a Guide, then he’s a mutant. The question is, what—

Oh.

A telepath.

Nothing about Xavier physically changes upon that realization, but that doesn’t stop reality from shifting. Xavier is _dangerous_. This isn’t some harmless mutation. Telepaths are trump cards, controlling minds if they want, and potentially shifting any situation to favor them.

“Stay out of anything deeper than my surface thoughts, understand?”

He might as well have smacked Xavier: it would have earned the same expression. Recoiling, Xavier blinks, and it’s only when he’s jerked up short by their bound hands that he stops attempting to retreat. Even then, he angles his body backward, one foot tilted toward the side and set against the cobblestones, ready to provide him with a good place to push off from should he attempt to run.

And he _does_.

There’s a second of undefined panic when Xavier’s fingers slip through his own, and then a burst of anger, but by the time he lunges forward to try to grab any part of Xavier’s retreating form, Xavier has already darted out of reach. Sprinting in the middle of the street would be noticeable, but Xavier, damn him, retains the presence of mind to slide silently into the constant stream of people. The crowd isn’t thick enough to hide him, but, short of bowling over the people between them, there’s no way to easily bring them back into contact. As it is, they’ve earned more than a few stares—and most of them aren’t directed at Xavier.

Let them stare. Is Xavier so foolish as to believe he _cares_ what a crowd of tittering humans thinks? Let them look, and let them judge. They worry that he’s harming Xavier: it doesn’t take a telepath to discern _that_. An older man with a plaid Donegal, a younger woman with her child, a harried university student with a messenger bag—none of them are so brazen as to openly stare, but their side-eyed accusatory glares convey their positions perfectly. They’re certainly in no hurry to move aside when he ducks after Xavier, and one of them—the older man—purposely slows his gate in order to impede any progress.

Lucky for the man, he isn’t quick enough to be anything more than a nuisance. Good thing, too: if he’s counting on his age to protect him, he’d do well to think again.

“Xavier? Xavier!”

No answer. But there’s a flash of floppy brown hair and an academic silhouette—that wardrobe really is something—disappearing just around the curve of the building. Is that—damn tiny street sign on the side of a building. What’s the name of the street—?

In the second between blinks, straining to make out the words on the sign, something indefinable in his mind slides, and the world warps. _Everything_ slides, dropping out of focus, and then— _hurtling_ forward. It’s there, it’s _sharp_ , and the details of the wall—brick—and the weave of Xavier’s jacket—tweed—as he tries to duck away. Overwhelmingly sharp. There’s—it’s too much—

Swearing, he gropes out blindly, half tumbling into the wall he’d been staring at. This close, the grain of the brick is huge, magnified—oh, fuck, it’s sliding again, but it’s—this time it’s sound—and—

Xavier. Where’s Xavier?

“I’m sorry. Please, _please_ , I’m sorry—“

Xavier’s voice. Thank god.

Hands on his head, steadying him and tilting him back upright. Xavier. Not gone, then. Good. But—those hands, as soft as they are, they’re soothing, resting on his cheeks, Xavier’s thumbs brushing over his temples over and over as his face slips in and out of focus, one second terrifying in its level of detail, and the next sliding away as the world transitions back into a cacophony of sound. Details flood in: if anyone wanted to know everything about that wall, about the conversation of the baker in the next shop over, about the problems of the women sitting in the shops—he could tell them. But he can’t _catch_ any of those things. The sensations are there, and then they’re slipping into something else. 

“Shhh, shhh, look at _me,_ hear _me_ —“

In time with the stroking of those thumbs, the world begins to shudder. It’s—it hangs for a moment, throbbing with clarity, and then the scene freezes. The enhanced sensations drop away. They fade slowly at first, but the further they go, the easier it becomes to draw back from them. The world stabilizes, and breathing no longer feels like an insurmountable challenge amidst all the information nestled within his perception.

And then there is Xavier. Once the world has seeped back to normal, there’s just Xavier, inches from his face, peering at him with worried blue eyes and a beaten, drained expression.

“What--?”

“You zoned out.”

“ _What_?” Laying his hands on Xavier’s shoulders, he sucks down a deep breath. Really, they’re nice shoulders, well formed and broad, surprisingly so for such an otherwise small man.

“You’re not supposed to try that without me there to ground you. It’s how it works—“

“I _know_ how it works.” Any idiot who’s studied basic Sentinel/Guide biology knows how it works. The problem is, it was never supposed to apply to _him._ “But—I didn’t _try_.”

Xavier shakes his head. His skin is hot, almost feverish to the touch, though only the tips of Erik’s thumbs touch it as they sneak up the side of his neck, hands moving in closer and framing Xavier’s collarbones between the crooks of his thumbs and forefingers. The edge of Xavier’s collar catches on one fingertip and dips aside, exposing the bonding mark to the light.

How do other Sentinels survive this? The desperation to lean in and lick at that mark burns up half of Erik’s rationality, and what’s left only remains through sheer force of will. Lucky that his reserve of will power is practically a bottomless pit by this point in life.

“You were straining to see where I’d gone. Even in a normal person, that kicks the senses into overdrive. For you—“

“And whose fault is it that I was looking in the first place?” Any child who has been subjected to a basic school curriculum ought to understand that the worst thing to do, if one should end up coming online as a Guide or a Sentinel, is to flee from a bondmate. “Damn you,” he snaps before Xavier can answer.

If Xavier is prone to running off like this, what will happen three months in when they can actually bear to be away from each other for days at a time? He tries this in some of the seedier areas of the world, and he could very easily find himself lost, injured—any number of disagreeable states. There are people who specialize in stealing Guides and then extorting cooperation from Sentinels. There’s no more effective way to press-gang a powerful force.

“Do you _understand_ ,” he snarls, shaking Xavier by the top of his shoulders, “that running away is _pointless_? I don’t want to be tied to this situation either, but I have the good sense to know that what you just tried is only going to end in awkward questions from bystanders and eventual recognition from the higher-ups.”

For convenience sake, if he had to imprint on a Guide, it would have been nice to find a compliant one. But, no, no such luck: Xavier squares up like a scrappy little fighter, tugging backwards against the hold on his neck and shoving his own fingers into Erik’s jacket. “Yes, we should talk about that, _darling_ ,” Xavier hisses. “Why, exactly, are you so keen to avoid notice? And, with all your vaunted powers of observation, why did you not notice that we are standing in a _public street_?”

Damn it all to hell.

He isn’t quite right. It’s a side street. Public, but not busy, and there’s no one on it but them. But… there could have been. Anyone could have been walking by and witnessed their display.

But Xavier isn’t done: “In some kind of trouble, are you? With the law perhaps?” A vicious shade of red is flushing up around his cheeks, and his eyes are sparking mad. Flexing his fingers roughly, he moves in a bit closer, tilting his head back and turning his noise up in a display of what is probably meant to pass for grand superiority, though it’s mildly ruined by the tremor in his lips. “If I wanted, I could call out right now, tell everyone what we are—“

“You could.” Calm. Stay calm. Unless he’s prepared to return to early thoughts of disposing of Xavier, this will need to be teased out carefully, without the possibility of a repeat performance. “And, for argument’s sake, let’s say you’re right: if I’m the sort of man who’s wanted in, oh, let’s make it _multiple_ countries—and we’re detained, you’ll get to spend the rest of your life tethered in one place. They don’t let you teach college students in jail, Xavier. Best case scenario, you become leverage to keep me in line as we’re sent out on the errands for a pack of desk-ridden, self-indulgent bureaucrats who would no doubt assign us to the highest risk missions due to an inherent belief that, as a criminal, I’m expendable. Do either of those options sound appealing to you?”

Xavier’s lips twist thinly, but he does step back, unclenching his fingers and releasing his death grip on Erik’s jacket. It isn’t a perfect fix, and his eyes are still snapping, but he doesn’t appear quite as prepared to go for Erik’s throat at any second.

He rolls his shoulders, straightening his jacket where Xavier has pulled it out of place. “Exactly.” If he were a real bastard, he’d take off walking and expect Xavier to fall into step behind him—but he isn’t quite that cruel, and the nagging sense of worry that Xavier will simply run hasn’t dissipated. For now, the sense of dread in his stomach requires that he grab a hold of Xavier’s hand again and turn them both back toward the main road. 

They haven’t gone twenty steps before Xavier begins lagging.

Just perfect. So much for the sweet-faced, smiling companion of their earlier pub meeting. Sure, Xavier has reason to be discomforted, but don’t they both? “Look,” he begins with as much patience as he’s capable of drudging up. “I’m not trying to be cruel.” That’s no more than the truth, though Xavier is unlikely to believe it. This—damn it, this is about keeping both of them _safe._

Sighing, he tugs a little at Xavier’s hand. Thankfully, Xavier gives in and picks up his pace, clipping along with his own shorter legs trying to match Erik’s longer strides. “When I tell you to stay out of my mind, it’s mostly for your own good: it isn’t a pleasant place.”

No one should have to relive some of those memories, and no matter how difficult Xavier is being, tossing him into the midst of those thoughts is not what he deserves.

“And you think I’ve never been in an unpleasant mind before?” Xavier shoots back. It’s probably supposed to be sarcastic, but a thread of genuine curiosity sneaks in alongside the consternation.

“Not like this.” Not unless he’s met another Holocaust survivor.

“Who _are_ you?”

“I already told you: we’ll talk somewhere more private.”

As much as the look on Xavier’s face suggests that he wants to protest for the sake of being contrary, he bows to expediency and continues walking, keeping his mouth shut. Miracle of all miracles, that lasts at least until they’re back out onto the main street. It might have lasted beyond that, if not for Erik’s complete lack of knowledge concerning their destination.

“You had a flat, you said?”

Xavier raises both eyebrows, and if a nod can be sarcastic, he manages it spectacularly. In this case… that may not be _entirely_ unearned. It’s damnably irritating, but Xavier is understandably annoyed at being dragged along, and in any case the sting doesn’t last long: Xavier quickly moves past driving home his point and transitions to actually taking the lead. He’s less aggressive, guiding instead of pulling, though his pace is a waste of time: they aren’t here to enjoy a leisurely stroll.

No. It would appear, in Xavier’s mind, that they’re actually in the midst of a lecture.

“I live with my sister. If you do _anything_ to harm her, I will make certain that you regret it. That you _deeply_ regret it.”

Surprisingly for someone so small, Xavier pulls the threat off with reasonable effectiveness—or he would if he were facing anyone less practiced in receiving threats. On the list of potential dangers, Xavier doesn’t make the first page. As a telepath, he _could_ turn Erik’s mind inside out, but Xavier doesn’t have the look of someone who’s done any previous great damage, and deliberately doing that kind of harm requires a resolution and a coldness that gives most people pause. Nine times out of ten, someone who has never killed before won’t be capable of pulling the trigger. The same goes for torture, or for inflicting any degree of substantial harm.

Chances are, Xavier couldn’t stomach it.

God knows it doesn’t stop him from threatening, unfortunately: he’s prattling on, explaining about his sister. Raven, four years younger, will be angry that he hadn’t called her, won’t take kindly to Erik, and so on. No reason to listen to the complete list: she’s no different than any other overprotective younger sibling who is possessive of her older brother’s time and attention. But babbling does, strangely, appear to have the benefit of soothing Xavier, working out some of the nervous tension that’s been resting in his shoulders. For that alone the noise is endurable.

“Here,” Xavier announces at last, stopping in front of a colorful red door that’s nestled charmingly into a stone wall. As drunk as Xavier was last night—and enthusiastic as they both were about discarding their clothing—it’s a wonder he’s retained the key, but he proves that he has, fishing it out of his pocket and nudging it into the lock with slightly trembling hands.

A place like this can’t come cheap. Once the door gives way and opens and they move through into a walkway, the scale of the flats beyond becomes apparent. They’re very well kept, with old framed windows and a generally pristine exterior that indicates this is not a university student’s typical accommodation. That becomes increasingly obvious when they make their way through another door and end up at the bottom of a sprawling wooden staircase that’s polished to a high shine and whose steps are lined with an obviously expensive rug. The wallpaper of the hallway is also immaculately done, and the gentle lighting that’s emanating from a small chandelier casts a dreamy glow over the whole setting.

“I’m on the first floor,” Xavier explains, tugging once at Erik’s hand. Ah. They’re still holding hands. That’s… very noticeable. Or does Xavier parade all his one-night stands through his flat like this? Either way, it’s a good thing the hallway is empty: until they’ve worked out precisely what story they’re going to offer, plausible deniability is a possibility that ought to be maintained.

“Not the usual student life,” he murmurs, following up the stairs after Xavier.

There’s a nearly imperceptible pause in Xavier’s step, but it’s overcome almost before it appeared. “When my father died he left me a rather sizeable sum of money.”

“I can see that.”

Old money, perhaps. Figures. Xavier was born with a silver spoon in his mouth—and now he’s saddled with a mate who has lived the opposite experience. To be fair, if he’s on the brink of graduating from Oxford—genetics, he’d said, somewhere in the stream of babble he’d unleashed on the way back to the flat—he’s acquainted with hard work, but academia is a far cry from the brutality of survival in the real world.

A real world that will work him over and spit him out. Or it would if he tried to go it alone. But he won’t. Xavier—those palms should never be covered in blood, that’s all. Xavier had looked too sweet in his sleep, and what the hell separates a person from being someone like Schmidt, if destroying that kind of innocence doesn’t build up a measure of guilt?

Of course, respecting goodness doesn’t mean allowing naivety or helplessness: Xavier will still have to be trained with a gun, basic self-defense, general common sense—but a good deadbolt on the door will be his best protection. He’d probably be a deft hand with the maps and the paper trails, though: something good and safe, useful, but tucked away from any stray bullets or spattering brain matter.

“Raven?”

Thoughts for a later hour. Xavier’s already stealing the moment by half-charging into the apartment—little fool never had a thought to check the door for a tripwire—and calling for his sister, releasing Erik’s hand in the process. And, from the sound of her shrieked answer, no one in the vicinity is going to be at liberty to address anything beyond this reunion until last night’s fiasco is ironed out.

“Damn you, Charles, you’re supposed to call. I was worried, but I didn’t want to call the police in case you were just passed out in bed somewhere, but then all I could think was, ‘What if he _is_ in trouble?’ and—“

“I’m fine, darling.” Said remarkably soothingly for someone who was up in arms scarce minutes prior.

Stepping into the room after Xavier, the view snatches away any doubt that was beginning to form over whether Xavier is feeling the loss of contact as keenly as Erik is. Xavier may be hugging his sister, but his back has knotted up in a hard line of muscle, and his right foot lingers back toward Erik, as though he’s been dragged forward without properly committing to the movement. What that little escape in the streets earlier must have cost him. He’d hardly gotten fifty feet—they couldn’t have been separated for more than thirty seconds—before he’d come running back, but it’s a wonder he even made it that far.

“If you’re fine, why didn’t you call? You know I—who is _this_?”

The girl—Raven, apparently—tugs her arms back from where they were slung about Charles’ neck. She’s hesitant in her movements, rocking unsteadily as she eyes him: it’s the look of a person who’s debating what stance to take, or whether to advance or retreat. All in all, she has no concept of what to do with her body as it relates to him and his sudden presence.

A good many men might find that appealing. A good many men might find _her_ appealing. Once, he might have too. She’s a beautiful girl, and while not the sort he’d usually take to bed—confidence has, as a general rule, always been far more appealing to him than uncertainty—she’s eye-catching enough that he’d have looked twice.

Standing next to her brother, she hardly registers at all.

At the question, Xavier turns slowly, pivoting on that lagging foot and opening the front of his body back up. The turn is a fraction too eager, and his stance far to wide: he hearkens to Erik’s physical proximity as effectively as metal that Erik has just begun to call to his hand. A few seconds more, and Xavier may well lose the battle he’s currently fighting and close the distance between them. 

It says a great deal about his self-control that Xavier continues to hold his ground, despite the strained glance he tosses in Erik’s direction. 

Before Xavier can introduce him, though, Erik steps forward to save him the trouble, extending his hand to the girl. “Erik Lehnsherr.”

Though she’s hesitant, she isn’t spineless: her eyes pinch at the corners, and when she takes his hand her grip is firm and well-formed. After glancing at Charles, she proceeds to meet his eyes, and while she’s visibly uncomfortable with doing so, she maintains her stare.

Interesting. There’s some potential there.

“Raven Xavier,” she counters. “Are you planning on explaining what you’re doing here? My brother doesn’t usually bring his… _dates_ home.”

So Xavier is given to conquests, rather than relationships. Good to know. And his sister—she seems to know a great deal about it. Is this going to be one of those situations where the siblings are disconcertingly familiar with each other’s sex lives?

Xavier presents a suitably scandalized response: “Raven!” Too bad all the modesty in the world doesn’t do much to tamp down on his blushing. Looks good on him, though. Very good.

“I’m sure your brother would do better explaining the current state of things.”

If possible, Xavier’s blush intensifies, though it’s joined by a sharp glare when Erik merely crosses his arm and nods toward Raven, who is eyeing him with increasing irritation.

“I don’t—well, you see—Raven—“

No, she doesn’t see, nor would anyone not already privy to the details of the situation. Xavier will need to do better than this. Living as he does with his sister, she will need to know the general state of things: there’s no hiding an imprint if contact is to be routinely maintained between Xavier and his sister.

Xavier _could_ cut all ties. But… it feels unnecessarily brutal, asking him to do that. He’s already poised to lose most everything familiar—if there’s a small link that can remain intact, why take that from him? Family… is important. Losing it….

The world doesn’t need another product of the kind of anger that comes from having family ripped away.

“Your brother and I have imprinted.”

For a handful of seconds there’s complete silence. Xavier and his sister wear matching expressions of disbelief, wide-eyed and mouths gaping as they both stare incredulously at him. Xavier recovers first, breaking out in a series of incoherent gasps that deteriorate into wordless sputtering. 

“You—I—you think you can just _say_ —?!“ 

“As opposed to you, who wasn’t saying anything at all?” Then, regarding the girl, he adds, “If I were you, I’d clear out for a few days.”

Wrong thing to say, apparently: her face twists, and all traces of the earlier physical uncertainty disappear from her limbs. Too bad that comes in the form of her stalking toward him. “And leave him alone with you? For all I know you’re going to murder him. You wouldn’t be the first asshole who would rather slit his mate’s throat than be bound for life.”

A fair point: that’s good thinking, actually. She’s a far sight more pragmatic than her brother. “I’m not going to kill your brother.”

She leans up, staring directly into his face from little more than a foot away. Her arms remain crossed, but there’s the distinct possibility that she’s doing that merely to stop herself from lashing out at him. “And I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”

“I’m pleased to see you aren’t that foolish.” Genuinely pleased, actually. In between leads on marks, he and Xavier will presumably return occasionally to visit whatever it is that Xavier’s missing—most likely his sister—and it would be nice to find that spending time with Xavier’s family is not altogether intolerable. “But you seem to have overlooked the fact that, if I wanted him dead, I’ve already had ample opportunity to kill him."

Off to the side, Xavier emits another squawk of displeasure and affronted dignity. This time, it’s too much for him, and he presses forward, muscling his way in between them. Though, that may also be related to his desire to renew their physical contact: his hands find his sister’s shoulders, pushing her gently backward, but his backside remains brushing against Erik.

Damn it. That is… not helpful. With Xavier this close, and not having had physical contact for the last few minutes—with his sister in the room, Xavier ought to have thought better of this. She really does need to leave—and soon.

And on that note… “Look,” he interjects, snapping his own hands up to Xavier’s shoulders. One firm tug has Xavier tumbling fully back against him, landing solid and warm against his chest, where one arm around his waist stabilizes him. “If you’re satisfied that I haven’t murdered your brother, and that I don’t intend to, it would be best for you to take a bag and go. Now. Your brother and I have things we need to discuss.”

She blinks, and then, as if coming to a decision, deepens her glare. “I—“

“Raven.” Xavier must be speaking through a clenched jaw, given how ground-out his words sound. About time he spoke up, though: it’s _his_ sister, and he knows just as well why it would be better for her not to hear anything illegal. Bad enough that _Xavier_ has to hear it. “He’s right. Here—“ Pulling out his wallet, he hands her—now that’s just foolish, handing his sister his credit card. But she plucks it out of his hands with a quick flash of exuberance that dissipates the second she turns her eyes back to the pair of them.

“Honestly, Raven, I’ll be fine. But—this is personal. You’ve had lessons. You know that. It wouldn’t be fair to any of us for you to overhear—“

She scowls fully in Xavier’s direction. “Fine. If that’s what _you_ —“ she eyes Erik out of the side of her eye—“want.”

Xavier sighs shakily, but his nod is firm and moderately convincing. Good enough for her anyway, because she finally— _finally_ —deflates her anger nods back in Xavier’s direction. “When can I come back—?”

“Tomorrow,” Xavier grits out. “We’ll… have sorted things by tomorrow.”

Not likely. What Xavier really means is that by then the bond will have stabilized to the point where they can stand not to be touching for minutes at a time. More importantly, he likely hopes that by that point they’ll probably have hashed out every illegal detail that she might overhear.

In the intervening time, that hardly matters: waiting for the girl to leave causes an itch that feels like madness. When she does finally emerge from her room with a carry bag, she doesn’t bother to conceal how quickly she notices that he hasn’t yet released Xavier. Her gait falters, and her mouth drops open, but she recovers quickly, making up for lost time by doubling her speed toward the door.

Nice to see that’s she’s realized that there are other reasons—beyond sensitive information—that make it imperative that she leaves.

Xavier knows it too, and addresses it by squirming in Erik’s arms, rotating them both when he pivots around, keeping his line of sight on his sister. “Raven—“ he begins, sounding a little guilty. So much for addressing anything. God only knows how this man isn’t permanently buried in a lab, perpetually hiding from reality. It seems his style.

“It’s fine, Charles.” And the reassurance in her voice says that it actually _is_ all right. The creases in her forehead that have been present since he’s walked in behind her brother haven’t faded, but she regards her brother with unchecked warmth, despite her equally unhidden concern for the situation. “We’ll talk it over when I come back and you’re less… We’ll talk it over when I come back, all right?”

There’s a difference between “all right” and “accepted,” and Xavier is clearly only treading closely to the later: his stomach muscles flutter against Erik’s hand, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot, heedless of the very unhelpful way that brushes his ass directly against places that shouldn’t encounter that kind of pressure when Xavier’s sister is still in the room.

Good thing—or a terrible thing, really—that she knows it: the color begins to rise up over her cheeks, though it’s only visible for a moment before she rushes toward the door. The enthusiasm with which she slams it shut may very well inform the entire building that something is amiss, but, with any luck, the neighbors will attribute it to a simple sibling disagreement.

Let them think what they want. If anyone comes knocking in the next hour or so, they won’t get an answer.

No, no answer at all—not well, oh, fuck, the curve of Xavier’s neck is creamy white, and from this angle the shirt collar doesn’t do a thing to hide the bond mark. If some rubber-necking neighbor wants to come to call, they can’t expect that their own insignificant needs should interrupt _this_. The taste of that skin, and the texture of it against his tongue, when Xavier whines and tilts his head to the side, allowing better access. Delicious noise, delicious man—pretty damn near perfect, if it’s only the situation at hand that’s to be considered.

But that would be too good to be true. Figures.

“No. I—get off.”

Twisting around in Erik’s arms, Xavier plants his hands on Erik’s chest and draws back away from the kiss. It’s telling that he doesn’t try to pull out of the circle of Erik’s arms, but that’s a cold comfort when Xavier is making it startlingly clear that such physical contact is about all Erik is going to get right at this moment.

One does have to give him credit: he’s remarkably stalwart in how he glares and tips his head back, forcing eye contact. “You’re a criminal.”

Laws. Right. And what have those laws ever done? They didn’t protect his family when they needed it most—the exact opposite. Laws might be necessary to stop anarchy, but the sort of finality that Xavier attaches to “criminal” is both unnecessary and naïve.

“In a manner of speaking,” he admits, relaxing down into Xavier’s touch.

“I’ll admit, I’m not especially keen to register with the government, but I _am_ very curious as to what you’ve done that makes doing so inadvisable.”

Curious does indeed define Xavier—and it’s not an altogether safe trait for him to have. Asking questions is useful, but it’s also deadly. Xavier will need to know—and know well—not to poke about where he doesn’t belong.

But this—he _does_ have a right to this. If his life is to be put in danger on account of this bond, he has the right to know why.

“After the war, and after I escaped from the camps, I devoted myself to tracking down my mother’s killer. In the meantime, I also began to track down various Nazi officials who were never brought to justice.”

Xavier’s understanding is far from instantaneous: it seeps in slowly, drawing up over his face and pulling a shadow over his eyes. He blinks, then blinks again, breath stuttering in his chest. When he does speak, it comes in a rush: “You hunt and kill Nazis.”

“Yes.”

Flexing his fingers, Xavier swallows and nods. “You’re a killer.”

“I haven’t killed anyone who hasn’t done something to deserve it.” _I wouldn’t hurt you_ goes unspoken, but Xavier surely must hear it. He startles as though he did, darting his pink tongue out to wet his lips. Now is not a good time, but talk of murder does not disguise the unbelievable redness of his lips. Wrong-footed is a good look on him.

“There’s… a lot of anger in your mind.”

“I thought I told you to stay out of my mind.” Not a question. If Xavier is overhearing what he doesn’t like, he’d do well to stop listening. 

“I’m not in your head.” He grimaces, looking to the side and leaning backward, half poised to take a step away from Erik. “But it rolls off you. I don’t have to actively listen in order to feel it. It’s just _there_.” 

“Then you’ll know my mind isn’t a pleasant place to be, and in the future you’ll heed my request to stay out, yes?”

“The killing hasn’t brought you peace,” Xavier returns, ignoring the comment entirely. He hasn’t taken that step back, despite continuing to hang on the knife’s edge of it. 

“Peace was never an option,” he answers Xavier coldly—because it’s better that he understands this now, rather than thinking he can change it in the future. “These men deserve to die. Most of all Schmidt. And I’ll find him. Nothing that’s happened in the last day changes that.”

And there’s that steel again: Xavier bristles, and finally, _finally_ totters backward, digging his heel in and pushing off from Erik’s chest. His hands remain outstretched even once he’s backed up, hanging, palm forward, in the air, as if to ward Erik off from coming any closer. “You can’t possibly think I’ll follow you about the world for this.”

“I think that if I leave, you’ll break first and follow me. Better just to follow me to begin with.”

A muscles twitches in Xavier’s jaw, and he grinds his teeth down. He does drop his hands, but it has little effect on his overall appearance, as by this point he’s worked himself up into a sufficiently stiff-spined state of disbelief and disgust. “I have worked nearly all my life for this degree—and you expect me to simply give up my career in order to follow you around the world _killing_ people?”

Yes. Xavier may glare and rage all he likes, but that doesn’t change a thing. “I don’t have expectations: I issue orders, and I expect that they’re followed. I understand that this is unpleasant, but this man killed my mother, and I will _not_ set aside my search for him.” 

Most people fall into line easily enough when given sufficient… motivation. But Xavier is a bonafide exception—and a foolish one. Expectation wasn’t meant to equate to challenge, but rather than being cowed, he draws himself up to his full height—not remotely intimidating, in and of itself—and snaps those baby blues wide open with no attempt to hide the fire that ripples through his gaze. “You don’t ‘issue orders’ to _me_.”

When this sort of attitude could get Xavier killed? He’ll issue orders if he damn well pleases, and Xavier had better learn to like following them. “Don’t I?” Said perhaps a little testily, but the reality is that Xavier’s life may at some point in the future depend on following directions. Orders to stay put, stay out of sight, remain with the door locked—if they start out now with Xavier believing he can do as he likes, that will set a dangerous precedent.

“No. You _don’t_.”

“Xavier—“

But Xavier is having none of it: marching up into Erik’s personal space, he sets his jaw and tilts his head back, glaring hotly with every sign of real indignation. “I could turn your mind upside down with less effort than it takes for most people to do basic mental math. And let’s not forget that scene in the street earlier: maybe I _do_ need you, but, without me, you run the risk of being caught up in your own senses. You don’t issue orders to someone you _need_.” 

Which just goes to show he’s never been in the military. “You do when that person can’t walk away.”

“Oh?” Xavier cocks his head and—damn it, that smile promises nothing good. “Then let _me_ have a go at it: get your head out of your ass and wise up to the fact that I’m not planning to snap to your command like apparently everyone else in this world has done.”

Time slows down, and they’re left standing across from each other, glaring daggers. Xavier’s chest is heaving, and his hands are balled up into fists, but beyond that he’s silent, obviously utterly oblivious to the shit he’s just tossed out.

If he would just stop to think about it, because—really? Xavier thinks the world has been _so_ eager to do his bidding. How quaint. Two dead parents and a genocide later, things aren’t exactly pressing on precisely as he’d like. Schmidt still at large, no leads, a spoiled new Guide to care for—the world is assuredly not laying itself down at his feet.

How moronic.

“You don’t have a fucking clue, Xavier.” One more second looking at that too-innocent face that’s painted over with anger, and this thing will blow itself up into a mess neither of them will be able to handle. Turning away feels like the only option, and while Xavier may take it as a retreat, it lowers the boiling point of Erik’s temper to turn on his heel and march over to the window and throw it open. With any luck it will shut Xavier up, knowing he could be overheard in the courtyard below. Not likely, but possible, and any hope of curtailing Xavier’s idealistic grandstanding is worth a try. The air is worth it anyway, and he sucks in a deep breath and tries to ignore the sound of Xavier marching up behind him.

“I’m sorry.”

What? And then—damn windowsill _,_ and had to smack right into it, of course. Let Xavier know he succeeded in being startling. But what’s another bump to add to the long list that he already has in this world that, apparently, harkens to his orders.

“I mean it. I didn’t think. I know things have… not been easy for you. And I’m sorry about your mother.”

He doesn’t know a damn thing.

But… Edie Lehnsherr was too good for anyone to truly understand, unless they knew her personally, and maybe that isn’t Xavier’s fault. Doesn’t make him less of a prick for tossing accusations about so casually, but the apology is a start—and there’s really no choice but to make this work.

Making things work would unfortunately be far easier if turning around didn’t reveal that Xavier hasn’t yet wiped away that deeply ingrained streak of stubbornness.

“You have a temper.”

Xavier cocks his head and smiles thinly, though not without warmth. “So do you.”

“Something in common.” Not the most auspicious start, nor the most promising omen for the future, but it’s better than nothing. “Who would have thought?”

That smile eases and widens. Like this, he looks a little more like the man from last night. Softer somehow, and sweeter, and it’s easier to see the similarities between Xavier as he is now and how he’d been this morning, sprawled out over the bed and sleeping peacefully.

The world will kill innocence like that. So many people would kill _Xavier._

Precautions will need to be taken.

“It’s not so hard to believe,” he says, shrugging and raising an eyebrow in Xavier’s direction. “We’re very compatible in bed, after all.”

Nice to know that Xavier can appreciate his humor. So few people understand when he’s joking. But Xavier doesn’t disappoint: he full out grins and lets a quiet little laugh slip out. It’s a pretty noise, and coaxing Xavier into making it more often could become addictive.

Would that really be so bad? It would be… nice, to have a pleasant companion. If Xavier were happy, and if he’d be there day in and day out with the softer part of his personality, if Xavier could provide a life, rather than just the constant grind of the hunt, if he were not biting and not angry, but just… warm: someone to talk to about the normal parts of life. If, if, if.

An impossible dream, but when Xavier sounds like that, it feels almost possible.

“You graduate in three months?”

Though the question isn’t aggressive, it puts Xavier back on his guard. The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles as he frowns and draws his shoulders up, ironing his posture out to ramrod straight. “Yes.”

“In three months, we’ll at least be able to be out of each other’s sight.”

Xavier nods. “I would hope so, yes.”

“I understand why graduation would be important to you, and I may have been too quick to dismiss your request.”

The look of open incredulity that Xavier effects says very plainly that he believes this to be an understatement. Fine. Let him have his theatrics if he likes. They won’t do him any good, but if they make him feel better than it’s worth letting him deceive himself in this one small way. 

“It is also my understanding that the last few months prior to a dissertation defense include a good deal of independent research.”

“I have classes to teach—“

“Then cancel them. Tell your supervisor that there has been a family emergency that requires you to leave town. Inform him that you will finish your dissertation and submit it by the proposed date, but that you will need to do so from—“

“You think it’s that easy?!” A red flush is quickly creeping its way up his cheeks, almost in proportion to the rate at which the volume of his voice rises. So damned stupid where it counts: the window is open, and anyone could hear. One quick swipe backwards shoves the window closed and prevents Xavier from being overheard, but that’s hardly the point. “I need the library, I need feedback from my supervisor, and that will be substantially more difficult through the mail. I—" 

“You’ll make it work.” It _could_ work. Xavier will have ample time on his hands once the bond settles enough to allow him to be left in hotel rooms during the day. Taking him along while pursuing leads might be necessary at first, but that will hopefully not be the case for long, and in the increased time that affords him it would be beneficial for him to have a project to work on.

“You’re bloody mad, you know that?” Xavier snaps, and this time he spins on his heel and stalks across the room, making for a cupboard in the corner that, when thrown open, reveals a rather impressive decanter of scotch. The container alone looks to cost more than most men could afford, and if the container is that expensive, the liquid within is surely out of any reasonable price range.

Xavier doesn’t bother to offer to share, but only pours himself a glass and then knocks back a substantial portion of it without another word. Most people would cough after taking a swig like that, but Xavier just grimaces and raises his glare back up in challenge. A drinker, then, and an experienced one. Good to know.

Also—and perhaps more importantly for the moment—not accustomed to checking his drinks for tampering before consuming them.

“If I promise to have you back in town for your deadline, would you be more amenable then?”

Another sip, though more reasonable in size this time. “Amenable to following you about the world in order to kill people? No.” 

That’s unfortunate. “What would engender your cooperation?”

“In _killing people_?” He scowls. “Nothing.”

Well, then. If that’s the case….

Soft academics like Xavier never could understand the practicalities involved. They’re too wrapped up in their abstract concepts concerning the horror of murder without ever realizing that, in practicality, sometimes there simply are people who don’t deserve to live, and who do the world a disservice by continuing to do so. “Then I’d say we’ve hit an impasse.”

There’s no mistaking the flicker of satisfaction that presents in Xavier, and which induces him to hold his head a few degrees higher. It’s almost charming, watching him believe that because he hasn’t _lost_ the argument, he’s won it. True, in most cases an argument delayed is a decision in itself, but that only works if action isn’t introduced into the equation. 

Xavier has won nothing.

“It might be better if we talked about this later.” In reality, the time for talking is over. A sufficient compromise has been presented, and they can operate using that. Xavier’s refusal to make any compromise at all does not negate that.

As it stands, Xavier is receptive to the idea of tabling the argument. He nods and, apparently believing that a reciprocal peace offering is required, gestures toward the decanter of scotch. “Would you like a drink?” he asks after a short, awkward pause that swamps the room.

The room is by no means sufficiently large for that sort of silence, and pacing across it at least breaks that up: to Xavier’s right is a bookcase that makes a viable point of focus, and though Xavier’s eyes warily track with the movement, he makes no protest when Erik moves to stand before the books, running his fingertips absently over them, enjoying the textures and dips and falls of their spines. “I’ll pass on any drinks for now, thank you. Neither of us had breakfast, if you recall.”

The blush from before rears up with a vengeance, licking all the way up to Xavier’s ears this time. Drinker he may be, but he recognizes that the morning is not an appropriate time to be knocking back scotch. Goodness knows, though, that with this whole mess anyone could be forgiven for forgetting the time of day and downing a glass before noon. This doesn’t necessarily mean Xavier makes a habit of drinking this early. Hopefully. If he’s actually an alcoholic, that will make things trickier than they already are.

“I’m sorry. It’s—I’m being awfully rude in not offering you breakfast. We have…” He stops, blinking. “I’m not sure what we have, actually. We have someone to do the shopping, but I don’t know what Raven has eaten since then. I’ll admit I’ve been distracted, trying to finish my thesis.”

“It doesn’t matter.” It really doesn’t. Food is food. When it’s good food it’s worth appreciating, but he’s too often gone without to ever be truly picky about what he eats. “It doesn’t need to be fancy.”

Though Xavier nods, he’s grown distinctly more uncertain, going so far as to fidget, shuffling one way and then pulling himself up and drawing back, even running a hand through his hair in too-rapid strokes. “I—I’m sure there’s toast. Would you—would that be all right?”

“Perfect.”

One more sharp nod, and Xavier scuttles off across the room, heading for a door that presumably goes to the kitchen. Whether or not he expects to be followed is anyone’s guess, but for the time being, the moment alone is more important than catering to Xavier’s nerves.

With Xavier out of sight, Erik takes one more look at the kitchen door, just to double check that Xavier isn’t coming directly back, and then hurries over to his luggage. Xavier would probably have fit at knowing exactly how many dangerous weapons are concealed within; finding out there are also drugs contained within likely won’t calm him any.

 _Not_ , as Xavier will probably think, that he is into drug trafficking. That isn’t it at all. But in an occupation where sneaking into buildings and disabling people is normal, there are a surprising number of situations where the easiest course of action is to simply slip a drug in someone’s drink and knock them out for a few hours.

Pills are easier to carry, but they take time to dissolve. Not a problem if there’s time to be had before the person returns, but in this case Xavier might not leave his drink unattended for long. Using a vial will mean restocking sooner rather than later, but Budapest should be good for that—there’s a flourishing trade there where this sort of thing shouldn’t be too difficult to come by.

Vial it is, then.

Snatching the intended item out of the front of the case where at least one is always ready and easily reachable, he curls him hand around it and quickly returns to the table, resting his hand on his leg where the table will block it from Xavier’s line of sight. The main trick is a slight of hand anyway: with his free hand, he taps his fingers rhythmically against the table. It never fails to draw people’s eyes, even if they don’t quite realize they’re looking.

Xavier, bless him, is no different. If anything, when he returns from the kitchen carrying a tray of slightly burnt toast and two glasses of orange juice, he practically broadcasts his interest, letting his gaze linger a few seconds longer than most people would find acceptable. Interesting. Xavier, for all his natural charm, is decidedly not adept at reading social situations. The results of being a telepath, perhaps? It might be that he’s relied so heavily on people’s thoughts that he’s no longer organically able to read their faces when a mind is closed to him—or, in this case, when he’s agreed not to read a mind.

And he damn well better _not_ be reading Erik. If he is, this whole plan will finish before it begins.

“I—uh—“ Setting the tray down, he raises a hand and scratches sheepishly at the back of his head. “I’m afraid I’m not very domestic.”

No, evidently not: toast is not supposed to be especially challenging, but Xavier has somehow managed to singe it anyway. He need not be as worried about it as he obviously is, though. “Then you’re in luck: I’ll eat most anything. Though I wouldn’t say no to some jam.”

“Jam.” Xavier repeats the word, turning it over with a determination that is surprisingly endearing. One would think he’s prepared to beat the cupboards until they relent and produce what he wants. “Yes—I can do that.”

Xavier likely wouldn’t appreciate being laughed at, but once he’s out of the room it’s safe to let a small chuckle bubble up. Poor man: god knows, they’ll probably be eating a lot of take away if this is Xavier’s level of culinary genius.

Budapest has a good selection, thankfully. And, on that note….

A quick tip of the vial slides the liquid within into Xavier’s drink. It disappears immediately, blending in with the orange juice. It’s tasteless—or it is to anyone who hasn’t trained in identifying it. Xavier would by no means be able to drug _him_ this way, but he likely wouldn’t need to: a telepathic suggestion would be ten times as effective.

After a minute or so, the door to the kitchen bursts open again, and Xavier returns, triumphantly holding a jar of jam out in front of him. There’s a small smile licking the corners of his mouth, and he happily proffers the preservative with an air of accomplishment.

Hmm. It’s good jam too. This will be a bit of a treat, enjoying a glimpse into how the other half lives. Sort of like dinner and a show: good food, while waiting for Xavier to pass out.

Luckily, it doesn’t appear as though it will take long: before he’s even turned to his toast, Xavier takes a long swig of the orange juice. His throat bobs as he swallows it down, and—

Oh.

That will take some getting used to. It isn’t that he hasn’t found men attractive in the past—quite the contrary—but the interest has never felt quite so visceral. Watching Xavier swallow, seeing that graceful white throat arched and working the liquid down—the sight reaches down under his navel and _tugs_ , turning the bottom of his gut inside out. The feeling isn’t unpleasant, but the stirring in his pants is by no means opportune in timing.

Grabbing for the knife and jam doesn’t quash the feeling, but it does at least hide any interest, and if he’s a little too enthusiastic in how he stabs at the jam, Xavier doesn’t seem to notice.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, with the only noise the sound of crunching toast and silverware on the plates. One thing after another, always methodical, nothing out of the ordinary—

There.

Xavier blinks confusedly, scrunching up his nose and shaking his head in a polite little motion that is more of a twitch than anything. At first he doesn’t consider that he’s being observed, but when the motion doesn’t serve to clear his head, he’s forced to raise a hand to kneed at his forehead, and even he can’t be so naïve as to believe that will go unnoticed.

“All right?” he asks Xavier, pausing with toast in hand. A few crumbs drop off and flutter down to the plate.

Xavier shakes his head again, more vigorously this time. “My head—I don’t know. It feels foggy.”

As nonchalantly as he can manage, he shrugs and takes a sip of his own juice. It goes down smoothly and easily—low pulp, not his favorite, but still quite good—and hopefully it will throw off any suspicion Xavier might have. People tend to equate all things on the table: if one person is drinking the juice, surely _all_ the juice must be safe, regardless of the fact that there are two separate glasses.

It’s not really Xavier’s fault. More than likely, he’s never had to consider this sort of thing before. He’s never had a reason to suspect someone wants to drug him.

“You’re probably dehydrated,” he tells Xavier evenly. “You don’t notice it until you start drinking, and then your body realizes how worn out it is.”

It shouldn’t be like a kick in the gut when Xavier takes another drink. It’s the desired result, but, as helpful as this is, Xavier is—fuck, he’s _trusting._ Xavier is trusting _him_ , and all that innocence could get Xavier killed, but it’s also the same kind of beautiful that it was this morning when Xavier was sprawled out in bed asleep, face open and unguarded and utterly content to lie next to Erik like he wasn’t in bed with a killer.

This—what Xavier is—it’s _his_ now. Stupid and mouthy and open and so damn beautiful that hurts to know how irrevocably he’s probably going to fuck it up. How the hell did nature think he was equipped to handle someone like Xavier?

It doesn’t matter now. There’s no untangling them from each other at this point. Before Xavier swallowed that drink, there existed the possibility of a quiet period in Oxford to work things out, but now that’s gone too, washed away with every drop of liquid that slides down that pale, ridiculously alluring throat.

Already, Xavier is blinking foggily. He shakes his head, disturbing his hair and toppling it down over his forehead until he rakes it back with his fingers: once, twice, and then the hand drops, growing heavy as the drug begins to take effect.

Xavier will realize soon. He’s too smart not to figure out what’s been done to him. That’s it’s taken this long is a testament to the relative shelter of his life thus far, and to that odd innocence that has not as much to do with experience as it does with a capacity to hope.

But when Xavier _does_ hit on the realization, he smacks into it fully.

“You—“ He blinks, slurring the word and narrowing his eyes as best he can when his muscles are all unclenching and turning him into a pile of languid, useless limbs. “Son of bitch." 

There’s nothing Xavier can do when Erik circles the table and takes careful hold of his face, cradling it upright. It’s surprisingly easy to wrench the neck by plunging forward when unconsciousness finally hits, and easier still to slip out of the chair and collide with any surrounding furniture. It wouldn’t do to have to stitch Xavier up and nurse him through a blow to the head.

“Can’t—Can’t—“

Apt enough, really: Xavier can’t do much of anything. The words won’t come, and while a red flush of frustration blooms up his neck and into his cheeks, it doesn’t do anything more than express his displeasure.

“It’s all right; I’m not going to hurt you.”

God only knows where he learned it, but Xavier is, surprisingly, a fighter. Maybe not in the physical sense of brawling—though, who knows, he might be—but even drugged to the gills and on the verge of unconsciousness, he pries his eyes back open long enough to shoot a withering glare when he hears that reassurance.

More experienced men than Xavier have panicked at the same treatment and gone under with blatant fear—and Xavier chooses to glare. It doesn’t last long—the drug pulls him all the way under a few seconds later—but there was no question as to his thoughts in his last seconds of consciousness. 

“You,” he mutters, patting Xavier’s cheek one last time before gently lowering Xavier’s head to the table and climbing to his feet with the intention of packing Xavier a bag, “Are going to be trouble.”


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a motor in operation.

What a stupid thought to have upon first waking, but while everything else is tangled in sleep, that jolts, solid and real, into Charles’ mind. A motor. A vibrating sensation that, while not particularly pronounced, exists from his feet to his head. The seat—there’s a seat—is soft, but it’s shaking slightly. So, the motor. 

Car? A car. Makes sense. Next step: pry the eyes open and have a look around. There will be clue, and things to make more sense. And there’s a mind, hovering at the edges of his consciousness….

Bloody hell. Everything is foggy. Even the sleep—it was there, and then there was the thought of the motor, pulling him back into consciousness far too quickly. But his eyes—they aren’t quick to open. One, two, three, _pull_.

Gray plastic swims in front of his gaze, and he blinks, fighting to work off the haze. It takes a few moments, but the dashboard pulls into focus after a few tries.

Except—except he doesn’t own a car. If there is a dashboard, it isn’t his.

“You’re leaking your anxiety. Stop it: you’re perfectly fine, and the feeling makes driving difficult.”

What? Who the hell—? “Hmmm?”

There’s a slow exhale, and then the voice returns, though this time it’s softened a few degrees. Saying it was injected with a shot of patience might be a step too far, but there’s at least a hint of compassion present in the tone now.

“Erik Lehnsherr. Do you remember me?”

Who—?

Oh, fuck, yes.

Yes.

The loud groan that escapes from between his teeth sets Lehnsherr to chuckling. “That’s a ‘yes,’ then.”

“That’s a ‘I’m going to make you sorry you ever thought of drugging me, you utter arse’—“

“Of course you are.” Accompanied by a derisive snort, that statement isn’t much of a ringing endorsement of Lehnsherr’s faith in any such threats.

“Listen, you son of a—“ But shifting sideways to face Lehnsherr does not appear to be an option: as soon as he tries to yank his arm in Lehnsherr’s direction, it’s pulled up short by a pressure around his wrist. There’s a cuff—that’s a—Lehnsherr has cuffed him to the handgrip on the door. It’s a padded cuff, but still, a _cuff_. “What?” Said stupidly, and rather blankly, but this _cannot be right._ Lehnsherr has handcuffed him to the side of the car.

Yes. Why, yes, he absolutely has. He’s clever about it too, hiding it under the blanket that, until now, has been tucked up to Charles’ chin. Anyone looking into the car would see a tired passenger who’d fallen asleep sprawled out across the seat.

“And what’s to stop me from getting inside your head and forcing you to let me loose?”

Lehnsherr glances at him out of the corner of his eye, though his gaze remains primarily on the road. It’s utterly unfair how relaxed he looks, one hand lazily on the top of the wheel while the other rests lethargically on his thigh. Good driving technique probably has no real use when the person can control the whole body of the car if he wants, but, still, it’s unfair that he appears so unruffled after having committed kidnapping, drugging, and restraint.

“Know how to work my powers, do you?” Lehnsherr returns, raising an eyebrow.

“I could figure it out.” That’s not an empty jest: he surely could, if given time. Unfortunately….

“Oh? Can you learn quickly enough to undo your handcuff and take control of the car before it crashes? You’ll have seconds, at best.”

Exactly. It could be done—but it can’t be done this quickly. Lehnsherr has effectively hit right to the heart of the problem.

“And when I _do_ have the leisure to learn? You won’t be able to pull a stunt like this again.”

Lehnsherr shrugs. “Who says I’ll need to?”

“What? You think after this I’m going to meekly consent to follow you around the world? You’re bloody insane.”

Again, no significant reaction. It’s absolutely maddening, watching Lehnsherr remain this unruffled.

“I think that you had the advantage when we were in Oxford. Leaving you wasn’t an option. But now? You have no choice but to follow where I want to go, unless you want to sit down in an airport or the like and refuse to move.”

If Lehnsherr weren’t _right_ , this would be far less infuriating, but as much as it burns to admit it, there’s no denying that running away from Lehnsherr isn’t an option.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t _any_ options—and Lehnsherr would do well to remember that. “And if I get inside your head and force you right back around to Oxford?” he snaps, sitting up a little straighter in the seat. There’s a crick in his neck that hurts something awful. “I might not be able to control the car, but I could sure as hell do _that_.”

This time, there’s a bit more reaction: the lines of Lehnsherr’s back stiffen up and he pulls himself more firmly upright, but he still doesn’t betray more than a mild strain in his voice: “And what do you think would happen when we get back there?” he asks coldly, thinning his lips. “You’d be looking over your shoulder every second of every day, worrying about what I might do to you—what I might do to your sister—“

“You touch my sister, and I will turn your mind inside out.”

 _Finally,_ Lehnsherr tenses. “And find yourself attached to someone in a vegetative state for the rest of your life?”

Breath is hard to draw out past the furious pounding of his heart. “If you hurt my sister? Then _yes_.” Raven is worth more than self-preservation. A cold, dead mind always tapping against his own would likely drive him mad within a matter of months, but if that is the price of seeing Raven safe, it is one that will be paid—and gladly.

“But you don’t make the same threat for yourself?” Erik’s tone has turned oddly curious, and his grip on the wheel has relaxed to the point where he begins tapping idly with his pointer finger.

“Wiping your mind would only harm _me_ as well.”

“But editing my mind? I’m sure you could plant an idea and make me believe it.”

“Are you _trying_ to give me suggestions, or do you just have a propensity for self-destruction?” It would fit the profile: revenge-bent Nazi hunter with no family or friends and who does not appear even remotely concerned about the danger involved in his profession. If Lehnsherr didn’t have a goal, it would be a fairly good guess to wager that the man has a death wish.

Lehnsherr’s mouth curls further upward, and he once again glances at Charles. This time, his gaze is oddly searching, and the time he takes to stare would be potentially lethal for any other driver not capable of controlling metal. “I’d prefer to know what I’m getting with you, that’s all. And, as far as I can tell, that’s a man who is surprisingly unwilling to use his gift for anything more than superficial manipulations.”

No amount of yanking is pulling the cuff loose, but the sheer annoyance generated by that statement merits another attempt. If the horrid thing weren’t padded, it might at least be a bit more satisfying. “Implying that I’m hesitant to permanently alter someone’s mind? 

“Yes. And that leads me to believe you’re in some way afraid of your gift.” Stated so calmly, and utterly without inflection. Lehnsherr keeps up his absent-minded tapping, further relaxing to the point that he splays his legs more widely open and leans back in the seat.

“Or that I have _morals_.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

“ _Fuck you_.”

“You’ve already done that.”

This man is _infuriating_. Turning his mind inside out may not be necessary: as he is now, he still may induce insanity in a matter of months. “No,” he snaps, nearly spitting the words out in Lehnsherr’s direction, “I am not eager to permanently edit people’s minds. Once you start something like that, it’s far too easy to just do _a little more_ , until suddenly no one around you is real anymore, and you’re as alone as you’ll ever be.”

“Like I said: scared.”

This is ridiculous. Lehnsherr doesn’t know the meaning for the word “scared” when it comes to telepathy. He doesn’t know what it’s like to tweak a stepbrother’s mind, just to make him a _little_ less violent, and then, instead of the desired result, to have a catatonic version of Cain Marko staring back.

If it were possible to punch this man, then car be damned, the crash is worth it.

“You don’t have any idea—“

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

What?

But Lehnsherr is utterly unflustered. He takes the shock he causes in his stride, flashing over a thin-lipped grin that would up the emotional pressure in the car another few degrees if not for the fact that his words are more interesting than his manner.

“You’re scared to do others harm: it’s naïve, but it’s also charmingly appealing, if unsustainable in all situations. Still, if more people were like you, I might have had a better life.”

If Lehnsherr had slapped him, he couldn’t have been more effective in achieving silence. There should be some witty answer for that, but nothing proper comes, and what eventually bubbles out is a choked, “I’m not naïve,” that only has the effect of causing Lehnsherr to chuck.

“You won’t touch my mind, Xavier—not for anything permanent. You see too clearly what sort of consequences that would have for the rest of your life. But you don’t only take that view with _me_ : you don’t alter _anyone’s_ mind—not in any permanent, meaningful way—and you believe you’ll never have to. And that? _That_ is the very definition of naïve.”

Only if naïve means being hopeful enough to believe there’s another way. Not everyone can be expected to believe that gallivanting about the world killing enemies is the best option.

“You’re damn lucky I think that way, or I’d have crushed your mind, killed you, and been done with it.”

An acknowledging hum appears to be Lehnsherr’s means of conveying both agreement and a slight skepticism: that noise hardly sounded _fully_ affirming—but Lehnsherr hasn’t given any indication that he’s particularly affirming of _anything_. Even the way his hands curve to the steering wheel is almost calculating, as though he’s weighed the leather and found it wanting, and is only tolerating it as his most functional option. No one would believe he _trusts_ anything in his surroundings: from his grip straight down to how he props himself in the seat, he’s commanding his atmosphere with the bearing of someone who casually takes ownership, lest he ever find himself lacking control.

“True,” Lehnsherr agrees. “But, likewise, _you_ are fortunate that I’m not as bloodthirsty as you seem to believe.”

Oh, no doubt Lehnsherr _did_ entertain the idea of killing him and simply solving this problem that way. Why he didn’t is anyone’s guess. “While I appreciate that you haven’t yet slit my throat,” he tosses back, fighting to keep the sarcasm from completely overpowering the words, “I think you’ll concede that you haven’t shown much other consideration: or have your forgotten that you drugged my drink?”

That thin smile curls a little further up Lehnsherr’s cheeks, wrinkling the skin. What would he look like if he actually, properly smiled? “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Well, then you don’t seem to have thought it out!” If he put as much thought into something like that as he did into kidnapping, this situation might not be so horridly detestable. Points to Lehnsherr for his thoroughness, especially in padding the handcuffs, but that doesn’t make them any less infuriating—and no amount of furious yanking, attempted subtly under the blanket, is having any effect. “You decided that I’m afraid to try controlling you because I’m worried about what you’ll do when I eventually have to—we’ll say sleep, yes? But what about when _you_ let your guard down? I’m sure you’ve given it a good go, but sheer will won’t keep you awake indefinitely. Aren’t you worried about retaliation?”

“From you?” He raises an eyebrow and pushes further back into the seat, grinding the back of his head into the headrest before arching his neck to the side until it cracks. “No.”

“Oh?”

“You’re a better man than I am. And, from what I can tell, you’re used to getting what you want via manipulation, rather than force.”

Lehnsherr must really be a hit at parties, with this ability to insult a person in the same breath that he offers a compliment. Has no one every bothered to teach him rudimentary social skills?

“I try to _convince_ people. Rationally. By _talking_ to them.”

“Yes,” Lehnsherr drawls, not bothering to hide his amusement. “I’ll just bet you do. I wonder: do you even realize you lick your lips more often when you’re trying to be charming, Professor? With a mouth like that, it’s effective, I can tell you from experience, having been on the receiving end. How does that assist _rational_ conversation? Because as far as I can tell, trying to seduce your audience falls far outside the realm of logic.”

As irritating as it is to cede Lehnsherr any sort of satisfaction, blushing isn’t a controllable reflex—and he must be beat red, probably right to the tips of his ears, if that self-satisfied little smirk of Lehnsherr’s is any indication.

“I don’t try to seduce my audience, thank you. I don’t need to. I’m three months away from being a professor of genetics: I think I can lay claim to some measure of higher brain function.”

“I never said you weren’t intelligent. Quite the opposite: I think you’re too smart for your own good. Add in a charming smile and sweet face, and I think you’re far too used to winning arguments with very little challenge at all.”

That isn’t true. No one gets to this level of education without engaging in vigorous debate, and an eighty-year-old professor doesn’t give a toss about someone’s pretty face. For Lehnsherr to make a claim like that—it’s insulting, and it’s preposterous. He’d have no way to know. They’ve been acquainted for a total of twenty-four hours—less, actually—and if he thinks that gives him a right to judge, he’s sadly mistaken.

“You’ve made it perfectly clear that you think I have no useful skills. Surprisingly, though, I’ve made it through life without help just fine prior to now.”

Lehnsherr nods. “Yes. Until now. But you wouldn’t make it a week on your own in my line of business.”

“I don’t want to _be_ in your line of business.” Releasing the deep breath that’s beginning to burn in his lungs feels depressingly like a concession, though Lehnsherr makes no comment. “Regardless, I hardly need you to look after me.”

“Oh?” So much for refraining from commenting. “You’ve been awake for approximately ten minutes, but I’ll bet you still have no concept of where we are." 

Lehnsherr’s words feel like a punch to the gut. It’s true. Ten minutes awake, and he’s spent it raging at Lehnsherr and utterly forgetting to take any notice of where Lehnsherr is actually bringing him.

Glowering, he turns his face away and grudgingly ventures a look out the window. There’s not much to see: it’s a highway, and the land looks like it’s still England. It must be, since they’re on the left side of the road, with a car or two occasionally zipping past on the right, passing them at a higher speed—though with a sufficient rarity to indicate that Lehnsherr is clipping along at a good pace. A look at the speedometer could confirm that suspicion, but that would require looking back towards Lehnsherr.

“And where _are_ we going?” Keeping his head turned away may be cowardice, but keeping his eyes fixed on the fields and road is easier than facing Lehnsherr’s—not wholly unjustified—satisfaction. “I can hardly leave the country without my passport.”

Lehnsherr barks out a laugh and tilts his head to the side, mussing his hair against the seat. Not so different from how he’d looked last night, when Charles had gotten a hand in his hair and disturbed the usual perfect comb of it.

Of all the things to be thinking just now, that’s high on the list of the most inadvisable options. Lehnsherr and sex? He’d been… far more courteous in bed than he is outside of it. 

“The passport you kept in your bedside drawer, you mean?”

“You went through my things?” Anger has been an ever-present aspect of this conversation, but this is a new shade of it: hot and thick behind his eyes, with the headiness that justification lends to a cause. Lehnsherr may not be fully at fault for all of what has happened—an imprint is no one’s fault—but the kind of entitlement required to so unapologetically search through another’s things hits hard in a way nothing else has. It shouldn’t matter, in comparison to a kidnapping, and it may be the strain of the situation catching up with him, but Charles is not an invalid. Lehnsherr has no right to treat him as though Charles has waived all his rights due to a thorough inability to care for himself. He can open his own damned bedroom drawer, thank you, and he could well have done so, if Lehnsherr hadn’t drugged him into oblivion first.

“We needed to leave quickly, and I assumed you’d like to have a few of your own belongings with you. We can of course pick you up what you need as we go, but I assumed—“

“You do that often, don’t you?” he hisses, finally angling his face away from the window. Like this the sun catches in his eyes and blinds him until he sits up straighter, blocking out the light with the roof of the car. Good to note, though: the sun is relatively low in the sky, so likely mid afternoon, putting the west on their right. That would mean… they’re going south. “Assume, I mean.”

 _Something_ is capable of penetrating that thick skull, it would seem. God only knows what it is about _that_ particular complaint that catches Lehnsherr’s attention, but his hands stiffen and he curls his fingers, digging his nails into the steering wheel. The rest of him: he doesn’t so much stiffen as he does ready himself. It’s an extension of his mind: as his thoughts flick through a variety of responses, his body readies itself for the corresponding actions.

“I have no interest in robbing you, Xavier,” Lehnsherr assures him stiffly after a short pause.

“And that’s the only reason you think I’d object to you rummaging through my things?” There was a nanny once—one of the longer-kept ones, near a year—who told him he’d one day turn the Atlantic dry with that tone, but it can’t be helped in a mess like this.

“I think you’ll quickly find that privacy is going to become a useless notion in our situation.”

“Think what you like. But I’ll thank you to stay out of my things.”

Lehnsherr snorts with a clear measure of derision, but he doesn’t chase the topic. Instead, he relaxes with a long sigh, rolling his shoulders back against the seat and narrowing his eyes at the road, though nothing about it has changed or become difficult to navigate. “You ought to try going back to sleep. It’s going to be a long night.”

Probably the first of a number of them. “I think I’ve spent more than enough time unconscious in your presence.”

“Fine.” Lehnsherr shrugs. “There’s a sandwich in the glove compartment if you’re hungry.”

The urge to kick the glove compartment is childish and he will not engage in it, no matter how sorely tempted. “So you can drug me again?”

“It isn’t drugged.”

“And I’m just supposed to just _believe_ you?”

Another shrug. “Then don’t. But don’t blame me when you’re hungry.” Lehnsherr could at least have the decency to be offended and offer an avenue for another fight, but he hardly reacts: his expression remains as stony as ever, and with the exception of a few quick blinks, he’s utterly unmoved. 

“I have plenty of other things to blame you for,” he tosses over at Lehnsherr.

This time Lehnsherr’s frustrated exhale has a distinct sense of irritation to it. “Blame me if you like, then, but do it _quietly.”_

And forgo conversation? With pleasure. If no fight is forthcoming, what are they going to do? Talk about… this? _Them?_ Whatever the hell any of this is, it probably ought to be discussed in a setting where there are no handcuffs involved, and where no one is navigating a moving car. Until those circumstances materialize, the side window is a viable alternative to staring at Lehnsherr’s face.

If, on occasion, the light reflects just right and freezes Lehnsherr’s reflection in the glass, it’s easier to simply ignore the fact that Lehnsherr’s eyes flicker toward Charles far more than probably either of them would have guessed.


	4. Chapter 4

Damned airplanes: no matter how many times a man flies on one, the recycled air always makes his nose itch. Xavier doesn’t appear to like it either, though it’s more difficult to tell in his case, when the main indication is how he insists on keeping his face pressed to Erik’s shoulder, nose buried against Erik’s neck. He hadn’t been anywhere near as good-natured when he’d still been awake, pouting every step of the way through security and boarding, and earning himself a few double-takes from the Heathrow staff members who were probably worried that he’d file some sort of complaint. It’s possible that they were also picking up on the telepathic displeasure that he was accidentally radiating. God knows he was essentially a beacon of temper worthy of any recalcitrant teenager.

In a grown man, it’s utterly ridiculous.

Twenty minutes after takeoff, and that temper was wiped out like it never existed: Xavier had leaned back in his seat and dropped off, and within a few minutes he’d started drooping sideways, inching closer and closer to Erik—and, as completely strange as it seems, stopping Xavier had never crossed Erik’s mind. Instead, he’d skimmed his fingers over Xavier’s shoulder, and once convinced that he was truly asleep, had nudged him forward bit by bit and slipped an arm around behind him, drawing Xavier in close and taking his weight.

Xavier had melted against him immediately.

It’s terrifying. Xavier had slumped, content and lost in his instincts. It’s a far cry from what he is when awake, but if this is what he’s wired to do now, then this is what he’ll revert to when it matters most. His body knows its mate.

Which means it must work both ways.

If he falls asleep, will he be equally as quick to trust himself to Xavier? In some measure it’s already happening: when he’d lost his perception back in Oxford, he’d instinctively allowed Xavier to pull him back. There was no question that Xavier could and would balance him. Even knowledge of his telepathy hasn’t been nearly as alarming as it ought to be. Xavier was right in what he said: he could turn Erik’s mind inside out with a minimum of effort.

A threat like that from anyone else would merit a bullet straight between the eyes.

But, instead of eliminating what is undeniably a weakness at best and an active threat at worst, Erik has formed his hand up to the side of Xavier’s arm, holding him steady in his sleep. Xavier’s ridiculous tweed blazer is remarkably soft to the touch, and it was only upon reflection that he’d realized he’d been teasing his fingers up and down in light strokes, working to soothe Xavier even in his sleep.

“Drink, Sir?”

London to Budapest isn’t an especially long flight, but it does merit a few drink offerings. In this case, the stewardess asking is young and pretty, and once he might have taken notice. There’s something vaguely nerve-wracking to the idea that the link with Xavier has drained that desire. By all accounts it will eventually come back once the bond has settled, but, if all works between them as it should, most studies have indicated that Guides and Sentinels will experience a sustained desire for their partner.

But to _look_ at an attractive woman, to note that she has moderately large breasts, beautiful eyes, and a tempting smile, and to feel nothing beyond an objective appreciation—it chills his gut, and the thought of drinking down something to melt that ice suddenly becomes imperative.

“A cup of tea, please.”

She smiles and nods, bobbing her red curls as she turns away and pours him out a cup of the liquid. It won’t be any good, but it ought to be warm, and that’s the main requirement at the moment.

“Anything for him?” she asks, handing him the cup and nodding toward Xavier. “If he wakes soon and wants something….”

“He’s all right.”

When they land, Xavier really should drink and eat something. He’d refused the sandwich in the car, and had appeared on the verge of hurling it out the window. In most circumstances, his paranoia would be commendable, but Xavier can by no means continue to distrust _Erik_ like this. It’s not a sustainable state of affairs.

With one last smile that sticks her lipstick-coated lips together firmly enough that they peel when she again opens her mouth, the stewardess moves on to the next passenger. Lucky that this isn’t too large a plane—three rows on the left side, two on the right—and that it isn’t overcrowded. He and Xavier had the good fortune to get in the row with only two seats: sitting next to an unknown person always makes relaxing a near impossibility. Worse, too, is sitting on the aisle and having to move at the whim of another person’s bladder. Worse, even, to have to ask someone else to move.

It’s good luck that in this case, when the tea catches up with him a few minutes later, the only person who might care about his movements is Xavier—Xavier, who is still dead to the world, with the tip of his nose drawing warm lines on the skin of Erik’s neck anytime he shifts in his sleep. But he’s mostly upright, and leaning the seat up to get Xavier a place to rest his face in lieu of Erik’s neck keeps him propped up well enough.

Everything’s fine. Xavier is _fine_.

But, regardless, the idea of leaving him is awful.

He’ll be fine. Two minutes, and Erik will be back, Xavier will have slept through his absence, and nothing will have changed. There’s no reason for the leadenness that has seeped into Erik’s legs, tensing the muscles of his upper thighs. He’s poised on the edge of his seat, catching the armrest on his hip, but that final movement dies every time he determines to make it.

This is absurd. It’s a trip to the bathroom. What’s he going to do from now on? Take Xavier into the stall with him? No. And starting to break the need to have him constantly close may as well begin right now before this entrenches itself and becomes habit, rather than biology.

With a deep breath, he unbuckles himself and pulls his seat up until it’s further forward than Xavier’s, which Xavier had tilted back as soon as had been allowed. Like this, he can prop Xavier’s head against the side of the seat, stopping him from slumping over while he’s without a more substantial headrest: namely, Erik’s shoulder.

Xavier will be fine. It’s two minutes. He’ll be _fine._

That’s a nice sentiment, but logic doesn’t do much to suppress the drop in his stomach that occurs when he plants a hand on the back of his own seat and propels himself out into the aisle. The bathroom isn’t more than ten or so rows toward the front, but every step sends tingles shooting from the bottom of his feet up into his calves, while his heart kicks up into an adrenaline rush. 

That’s exactly what it is. Adrenaline. With the bond this new, his body mistakes separation from Xavier as an indication that something is wrong: he ought to be tumbling around the sheets with his new mate, and if he’s not, then Xavier is either wandering away or has been forcibly removed. Either way, adrenaline and the increased focus and strength it brings might be needed to retrieve him.

Just one tiny substance, but it’s twisting up his life spectacularly—and that’s _all_ it is. Bonding is, on the side of the Sentinel, just a matter of the adrenal gland kicking into overdrive in the presence of a compatible mate. It’s on the Guide’s side—Xavier’s side—that the bond is really formed.

Good. Thinking about biology is good. Think about that, rather than how leaving Xavier kick-starts just about every possible sensation of unease— 

_Biology_. There’s no exact science: it’s an unpredictable process that has yet to be fully explained. Everyone—even those who eventually become Sentinels—have a gland high up on the neck, directly under the throat. Every single person on this plane—and it helps to count them as he goes by, ticking off the numbers in his head and fighting to keep his breathing even—has that gland. But for whatever reason, something about him had triggered Xavier, whose gland had swelled up and begun pumping out hormones. But the kicker is: somehow, in those few seconds of contact, Xavier’ body took stock of Erik’s, and created a chemical cocktail designed specifically for _Erik_. No one else would find themselves triggered—and no one has ever been able to explain exactly how that’s possible.

Doesn’t matter how it’s possible at this point—only that it _is_. And it’s thanks to that doped up little cocktail that he’s now fumbling his way into the bathroom and, with sweaty palms, slamming on the light. There’s no telling who is a Guide and who is a Sentinel until manifestation occurs, but now that it’s happened to him, all signs are pointing to this being one hell of a ride. It’s simple now, really: Xavier’s hormones have kicked Erik’s body’s adrenaline production into overdrive. Until those levels steady, he’ll need Xavier about to pull him out of any zone-out that he goes into unexpectedly. Once things settle, control will come more easily, and those adrenaline levels will only spike so drastically in a situation requiring specific focus—causing the attention to detail, the enhanced reflexes and senses, the seemingly slowed flow of time—but until that happens, he’ll be reduced to this: trying to control his breathing in a bathroom as he fights to unroll a stretch of toilet paper without giving into the desire to bolt out the door and back to his Guide.

It’s without a doubt the most unsettled piss he’s ever taken in his life, and by the time he’s done—ten seconds, all counted out precisely, and feeling more like ten hours—his forehead is covered in sweat and his chest is heaving. Xavier. He needs Xavier.

The door bangs open when he shoves it, nearly hitting the next person waiting to use the restroom. More than a few heads turn, and on the way back down the aisle of the plane he’s aware of a smattering of glares, but at the moment it takes all of his effort to stop himself from breaking into a run: those looking askance can be damned.

“Xavier.”

As if he needed to say anything at all: Xavier is poised on the edge of his seat, eyelids peeled back widely enough to display a swath of the whites of his eyes, and his hands clenched down viciously on the armrests. Ten more seconds, and Xavier probably would have bolted for the bathroom, and to hell with propriety.

“Yes,” Xavier chokes out, angling his head back and locking onto Erik’s stare, gazing at him in open-mouthed relief as he sucks down air. Poor bastard has probably been holding his breath. Xavier notices how hard he’s breathing almost immediately, but even then it takes him a few seconds more to clean up his posture and push himself back toward normality: mouth closed, eyes a little less wild, and breathing beginning to quiet. “I woke up and you were gone.”

Being awake through it all wasn’t much better. Only when he ducks back down into the seat and slides an arm around Xavier’s shoulders does his pulse begin to slow. “I only went to the bathroom.” But the words are wispy and apologetic, rather than a rebuff, and he can’t catch the lungful of air that would make possible an actual reprimand. Giving one at all would be hypocritical: Xavier may have panicked, but he wasn’t the only one. “We—“ Another deep breath. “Sex would help, you know,” he admits in a hushed tone. They’ve drawn more than a few stares, but there’s no reason for anyone to overhear talk of their sex life. “There’s research to show that—“

“I know.” Xavier shivers—probably from exhaustion that follows the release of stress—and leans forward, pressing his forehead to Erik’s shoulder, exposing the side of his neck. The pale skin behind his ear practically begs to be touched, and giving into that is as much an effort to reassure himself as it is to reassure Xavier, but damn it if it doesn’t quiet him, stroking a fingertip along Xavier’s hairline and up behind his ear. And with that bite, high on Xavier's throat--the entire situation presents a worryingly hypnotic level of calm. “I don’t mind. Whatever your other disagreeable qualities, you were, ah… _very satisfying_ in that sense.”

How nice of him to state that so enthusiastically. It’s a sad testament to the general pathetic state of this situation that the statement still inflates a small bubble of pride. Nice to know that Xavier was pleased. Nothing else may be easy, but their sexual compatibility is one thing to check off the list of grievances.

“I suppose I ought to be pleased that you’re attractive,” he answers Xavier grudgingly, stroking his hand back into Xavier’s hair and petting down what was poked up by earlier caresses. “That is, attractive to _me_. And in general, I suppose.”

Xavier snorts. “High praise.”

Any higher and they’ll both be on the verge of joining the Mile High Club. “We’ll need to work on our balance. I’ll need to practice focusing, and you’ll need to work on anchoring me.”

Xavier accepts the change of subject easily, not bothering to disguise the flash of relief that softens his face and puts him more at ease. He was already leaning into the petting, but he all-but sinks into it now, propping his head against the seat and drooping forward into the touch. “Once we land?” 

“As soon as we’re safely within the hotel room.”

That earns him a mild nod, though also a casual inspection. Xavier is unabashed about it, undeterred from staring Erik straight in the face, despite how his gaze sharpens. And those eyes—that’s the definition of distraction right there, and as much as Xavier might protest about trying to seduce—or, in the interest of generosity, say _charm_ —his way out of an argument, he can’t possibly be naïve enough to overlook exactly what effect his eyes have on people.

“You’ve already booked a room?” Xavier asks.

As oddly pleasurable as it is to commit an affectionate action as innocuous as stroking Xavier’s hair, they can’t keep this up indefinitely. Suppressing the pang triggered when he drops his hand to Xavier’s knee instead is not especially pleasant, but necessity takes precedence. “Of course.”

Xavier frowns. “You had the money—?”

Rolling his eyes may not be on the list of recommended ways to bond with one’s new mate, but a comment like that simply begs for it. “There are other people in the world with money besides you, you know.” 

It’s a wonder Xavier ever gets anyone to take him seriously: his scowl resembles the expression of a kitten being subjected to its first bath. “Don’t be an ass: that wasn’t what I meant. I just thought… you don’t seem the type….”

“Which shows exactly how long you’d last if you had to navigate this landscape on your own.” He gives Xavier’s knee a light squeeze: mostly a warning not to immediately try to refute that. “My lifestyle has surprisingly lucrative benefits.”

Honestly, that’s no reason for Xavier to look as though he’s been smacked. “I’m not staying in a place that’s been paid for with money that you’ve gotten by—“

“I’d suggest you don’t finish that sentence,” he interrupts Xavier dryly. How much common sense could it possibly require to realize that it’s a terrible idea to discuss potentially illegal events in a setting where there’s even the slightest chance of being overheard?

More sense than Xavier possesses, unfortunately.

Xavier’s distractingly red mouth stops moving, though he can’t be bothered to close it—and there he goes with the tongue again, darting it out to wet his lips. Nerves? Seems likely. At this point Xavier doesn’t appear to have the presence of mind to be purposefully manipulative.

Surrounded by all his soft academic friends and white-collar professionals, he’s almost pathetically unaccustomed to facing anyone who can call him on his bullshit. It would be pathetic if it weren’t… surprisingly endearing. Annoying, but unexpectedly appealing: that gobsmacked look is fast becoming just this side of addictive. Scandalizing Xavier may have to become a side hobby.

“You’re not spending any of your money while abroad,” he informs Xavier, squeezing his knee again—except this time Xavier pries his hand away, sliding his own hand into place as a barrier. Smart move: to anyone else it would appear that they’re holding hands; reality of course being that Xavier has turned his fingers upward, jabbing his admittedly short nails into Erik’s palm. “We’ll talk about it later.” 

Xavier thins his lips into a tight smile. “Too right we will.”

That wasn’t meant to be a challenge, damn it.

“We’ll be landing soon.”

Remarkably, Xavier recognizes that as the ceasefire it’s meant to be, going so far as to flex his fingers and very deliberately—and with a vicious little smirk—flatten out his hand, grasping Erik’s fingers in his own. “And how I _do_ look forward to that.”

Nice to know that he’s bonded to a man whose tone is dryer than the Sahara.

Not only that, but, as grating as it is to admit? As much as he might have Xavier’s number, so to speak, Xavier is proving he’s capable of making himself a bonafide nuisance when he’s so inclined—and he’s too frequently making use of that ability. It’s been years since anyone has gotten under Erik’s skin as effectively as Xavier has in only a few hours.

It’s been years since anyone has gotten close enough to have the chance.

Unfortunate, then, that Xavier isn’t someone was can simply be kicked away.


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as they’re clear of the airport, Lehnsherr drags them onto the public transport. There’s no reason to rush, but Lehnsherr moves with purpose regardless of his time constraints—or lack thereof—and at the suggestion that he ease up, he merely eyes Charles with undisguised judgment and haughtily declares that those who waste time must have too much of it on their hands.

It takes a truly admirable amount of control not to retort with vitriol, but there would be little point. Lehnsherr has proven that he’s quite unconcerned with Charles’ opinions: snapping at Lehnsherr without also possessing the means to make him genuinely listen is akin to spitting into the wind. 

That logic vanishes when faced with a trip on the night bus. They’ve arrived too late in the evening for the metro, tram, and regular bus lines to be in service. Quite likely this would pose no problem during the weekdays, but Saturday night is proving to be a whole nother special Hell.

For once Lehnsherr’s surly countenance is actually rather handy: none of the drunken youth make any attempts to approach them—though neither do they bother in any way to tone down their behavior to a level approaching respectability. It isn’t even that Charles doesn’t understand: drunk is _fun_ , and he’s only twenty-nine, for goodness sake. But trying to all but fuck on a bus seat? Swearing belligerently at anyone in range? He outgrew that behavior before he ever tried it at all.

Lehnsherr, though unreservedly disgusted, is undeterred. Grabbing Charles’ hand, he tugs him to a seat near the front and, without another word, herds Charles to the seat closest the window where Lehnsherr can box him in against the wall. It might save him from being pawed at by any miscreants, but it does nothing to muffle the noise and the decidedly unpleasant smell of vomit that lingers around one of the teenagers with particularly brightly pink colored hair. Did they—oh, _oh dear, really?_ There are at least five highly illegal events floating about in the boy’s mind. There is fun—getting sloshed at a local club, namely—and then there is sheer stupidity, and this group has indulged in quite a lot of the latter.

He and Lehnsherr could have taken a taxi, damn it. There was no reason to subject themselves to this—no reason beyond Lehnsherr’s sadistic paranoia. Apparently, he prefers to take public transport when traveling to his hotel, lest any nefarious taxi driver recall his address.

And then there’s the hotel. It isn’t _bad_ , per se, but Lehnsherr hasn’t specified how long they’ll be staying, and if this promises to be a trip lasting for any length of time, it might be nice to be in a setting where the bed is more than a mattress with a faux-headboard screwed to the wall.

Lehnsherr’s soft snort snaps him out of his assessment of the hotel. “Yes?” The word comes out remarkably politely, considering the growing list of grievances he’s currently compiling.

Lehnsherr shakes his head, the corners of his lips tugging upward in a not-altogether-pleasant way. “Nothing.”

“Oh, don’t be shy now.” So much for civility: the venire is rapidly wearing thin. Honestly, though, Lehnsherr would try the patience of a saint.

“Most people would consider this hotel perfectly adequate.”

“It is. Adequate.” But not somewhere to be borne for more than a few days, if there’s another option. Going to college was more than sufficient in terms of exposure to cramped living spaces, but after leaving undergrad behind, it seems wholly unnecessary to seek out similar situations.

The corners of Lehnsherr’s mouth tug more, until he’s wearing a thin smile laced with bitterness and a generous dose of condemnation. “Then don’t complain.”

Without waiting for a response, Lehnsherr takes off toward the doors. His one saving grace is that, ever since they exited the bus, he’s been carrying both a suitcase and the over-the-should bag that he nabbed from the flat in Oxford, leaving only one suitcase to Charles. Serves him right. _Lehnsherr_ is the one dragging them halfway around the world; the least he can do is carry the luggage.

Reception turns out to be a tight-lipped affair, and while Lehnsherr is polite and unobtrusive, he’s utterly nondescript, probably intentionally. A quick attempt to skim the very surface of his thoughts confirms as much: he’s drawn up tight in the way people with a secret so often are, as though relaxing, even mentally, would mean laying themselves out bare. It certainly explains why he pushes his identification toward the receptionist without ever saying his name aloud, and why he insists that Charles pop his collar to hide the bonding mark.

By the time they retire to their room for the night, it’s nearly one thirty in the morning. Twelve thirty on English time, but after the day that’s just passed, even this bed—cheap as it is—looks inviting.

But there’s only one bed.

That shouldn’t be surprising. They’re going to be having sex. The prospect itself isn’t disagreeable. But the idea of actually _sleeping_ together, in the most literal sense of the word, burrows down under the skin and incites a concentrated uneasiness. Sharing a bed feels too… intimate, in a sense that isn’t altogether logical.

Lehnsherr must notice him looking: he sighs, though he lets the matter go there, electing instead to set the luggage down on the foot of the bed and tug a key out of his pocket in order to unlock the suitcase.

How nice it must be to be capable of dismissing this sort of thing so easily. But, as immune to feeling—when not induced by a bond—as Lehnsherr is proving himself to be, not everyone in the world can be expected to do the same.

“I’d suggest you take the couch,” he says, tossing his own suitcase down next to Lehnsherr’s, “but apparently that wasn’t in the budget either. Would that chair suit you?” The words are said innocently, but Lehnsherr fixes him with an icy stare, though he does run his eyes over the one upholstered chair that’s perched beside the table.

“Don’t play coy: we both know your modesty is already shot straight to hell.”

“I wouldn’t say _that_ —“

Most people don’t understand how to send images to telepaths, and Lehnsherr, apparently, is no exception. He projects his chosen image forward with such force that it slams into Charles’ carefully erected shields. If the shields had truly been built to keep all thoughts out, nothing Lehnsherr sent would have penetrated, but as Charles has been trailing through the surface layers of Lehnsherr’s mind, the image slides right through.

Oh. Well. At least Lehnsherr appreciates what’s on offer sexually. Looking at oneself naked is not an altogether pleasant experience—disturbingly narcissistic, actually—but there’s some pride to be had in knowing that Lehnsherr finds him physically appealing.

There’s less pleasure in the knowing that Lehnsherr is making a point.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to enjoy sharing a bed,” Charles snips, popping the latches on his own suitcase. No key for his case: what would people steal? His undergarments? Assuming Lehnsherr packed him some….

“I’m not,” Lehnsherr admits, shrugging. Already, he’s pulling out a pair of loose gray sleep trousers and shaking them out, though his attention remains elsewhere—namely, fixed firmly on Charles. The how and why of that ability’s development are not particularly pleasant to consider, but it’s worth noting that Lehnsherr is terrifyingly good at watching while not physically looking at all. “But I don’t think either of us will sleep well separated, even if it’s only by a gap between the beds. Not for the first few weeks anyway.”

Good point. Still… “I thought your goal was to avoid attracting notice? Or are you hoping that no one will notice that two unmarried individuals of eligible age are sharing a bed?”

“I listed you as my husband.”

Fine. That’s a fair precaution to take. With any luck, no one will take a second glance. But if they do? Has Lehnsherr considered that? The chance of anyone at a hotel doing that extra research is slim, but if this is going to be a pattern—this business of masquerading as a married couple—it would be well worth having falsified evidence to back up the story.

“I’m assuming you’re used to this? Falsifying documentation, I mean.”

Lehnsherr pauses at unpacking his suitcase, his hands stalling over the folded clothing. He hadn’t been making eye contact before, but—the bastard is actively avoiding it now, turning his head away and—where does he get off, thinking he can brush concerns aside if he doesn’t—

But Lehnsherr finally does turn his face back around, and the stony expression on his features when he does is worse than any lack of attention. He looks more wax figure than living man, with his blankness frozen into a mask. His hands too are steady and unaffected, but with movements far too perfect and prim, almost military when he tucks his hands behind his back and straightens up.

“I _am_ used to obtaining falsified documents, yes. But the marriage certificate isn’t fake.”

Of course it is. They aren’t married. Or has Lehnsherr overlooked that rather significant detail?

“Fine: stolen legal documents, then. But I mean, what names did you give?”

Lehnsherr doesn’t blink. “Our own.”

An official legal marriage license with their own names? How the hell is that possible? Isn’t Lehnsherr supposed to be concerned about being tracked? And for it to be in their own names while also being authentic, that would mean actual signatures—and there was no signing. No wedding. No nothing. That _never happened_.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Raven has always complained that his accent becomes prissier when he’s uncertain, and that may very well be true: it does sound awfully formal at present.

“I forged your signature, manufactured witnesses, and passed a bribe in order to get the whole thing signed off on before we left England. Legally, we’re married.”

What? What is Lehnsherr _saying?_ His lips might be moving, but there must be a failure in communication. What it sounds like Lehnsherr is saying cannot be possible. For a wedding—doesn’t a wedding require _two_ people? Paying off someone would never stand, not for something like this, where it could easily be disproven if—

If one of the parties involved contested the marriage. Yes, exactly. Lehnsherr isn’t worried about that, because strolling into a courtroom and protesting _anything_ is not currently an option.

“You son of a bitch—“ he snarls, moving before thinking, and dropping one shoulder to wind up, to—to do anything but sit here helplessly. Amazing, how easy it is, swinging a fist at Lehnsherr’s face, with the air whistling past his fist until he hits skin—though not the skin he was aiming for originally. This is knuckles on palm, with Lehnsherr deflecting him, and rolling when Charles latches onto his shoulder with the other hand, digging in his nails when his wrist is captured and Lehnsherr twists, swinging him to the side.

They go down together on top of the bed in a mess of limbs and wheezed-out grunts of exertion. Lehnsherr’s suitcase flies off to the side, spewing clothing over the floor, and the duvet smudges off to the side under all the flailing. They roll, but Lehnsherr comes out on top, and, as irritating as it is, it’s becoming increasingly clear that Lehnsherr has combat training—and that he’s willing to use it.

The grip _hurts_. Having Lehnsherr twist his arm up behind his back and shove him face first into the bed strains muscles he didn’t know he had, all the way from his upper arm up into his shoulder. He was never a fighter, and apart from a few pub scrums, has never tried to be, but that may have been a mistake, considering how very useful it would be at present. Kicking is useless too, without leverage—and Lehnsherr is very good at keeping him pinned, leaning over on top of him and smothering Charles with his weight.

Worst of all, he’s comparatively gentle about it. He may be whipcord thin, but he’s heavy enough to prevent any escape, and undoubtedly has the heft to do damage if he were so inclined: the fact that he isn’t probably says something decent about him, if not for the fact that the wanker just manufactured a marriage and then had the gall not to say a damn word about it until just now. _Nothing_ is decent about that. 

Married. They’re married.

“G’off me!”

Lehnsherr merely leans in closer, sighing, as if _he_ is the one who is put upon. Really so terribly inconvenient, having one’s spouse object to being manhandled and force married.

Fuck him. Just… fuck him.

“If you insist on picking physical fights with me, Xavier, let me be clear now: you’ll lose.”

Certainly. But if they’re going to fight dirty… then there’s no contest. _Lehnsherr_ will have no chance. With a little more provocation, Lehnsherr might end up thinking he’s a thirteen year old girl, or possibly that he’s taken an intense interest in interpretive dance. That would knock a good deal of his pride right out of him. The prospect is beyond tempting, to just reach in and _tweak_ a thought. 

But if he does that, what then? Once Lehnsherr is back in his right mind, it would mean constant paranoia, waiting for Lehnsherr to exact some sort of horrible revenge. Being pinned to a bed is hardly the kind of dire scenario that would justify causing the need for that kind of watchfulness. Under other circumstances, the warm weight and the solid poke of Lehnsherr’s hips against Charles’ backside might even be pleasant. Only a few hours ago, it _had_ been.

Truthfully, is _this_ worth angering Lehnsherr over?

“Get off,” he growls again, whipping his head back in hope of catching Lehnsherr in the chin. No such luck: instead, Lehnsherr’s cheek ends up tucked against his own, with both of their stubble—Lehnsherr has more—rubbing together and starting up a slight burn.

“For someone who nearly has a doctorate, you strike me as a surprisingly slow learner,” Lehnsherr remarks dryly as he shifts his hips, locking his position in and allowing him to settle his weight into place.

Willing to wait this out, is he?

No. Fighting back may result in retaliation, but letting Lehnsherr win this hands down is just as bad. Handing that kind of power over is little better than surrender without fighting at all.

“Get off,” he demands once more, except this time, there’s weight behind it— _mental_ weight. It isn’t much—only what is necessary to bend Lehnsherr’s limbs into a backward motion—but it’s effective, and Lehnsherr’s weight vanishes off him with a satisfying rapidity. Almost before it’s gone, Charles rolls, flipping over and sending the duvet flying off the bed altogether. The sheets rumple as well, and he clenches his fists into them as he levers himself up onto his elbows, staring at Lehnsherr from his back on the bed. The position itself might not scream of power, but Lehnsherr’s bloodless face offers plenty of confirmation. “I told you to get off,” he breathes, waiting for—what? Just waiting. Lehnsherr won’t allow this to stand, and perhaps it was unwise to bait that, but allowing Lehnsherr to cow him into setting aside his telepathy entirely—how is that any better?

That doesn’t make the tremor in his voice any less embarrassing. It might be mostly smothered by anger, but there’s a trace of fear there too. If Lehnsherr catches on to it….

He doesn’t. Either that or he chooses not to acknowledge it, and what are the chances of that? So far he hasn’t expressed an ounce of diplomatic ability. More likely, he’s too preoccupied with the anger—Charles’ _and_ his own.

“I thought I told you to stay out of my head,” he murmurs, voice low and throaty and simmering with threat.

“And _I_ told you to move off me. You didn’t listen.”

Lehnsherr snorts contemptuously and crosses his arms over his chest. A man more easily cowed might have looked away, but Lehnsherr maintains eye contact with a focused, furious stare. “I wasn’t hurting you.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve already dragged me halfway around the world: I’d say the balance of power is firmly in your favor. I’m hardly going to allow you to physically manhandle me about as well.”

“ _I_ wasn’t the one who threw the first punch.”

“No?” Pushing off against the mattress, Charles sits up properly. “Perhaps not physically. But I can’t believe you were under the impression that I’d fall politely into line with your insane disregard of my person. _A marriage certificate?_ Really?” 

Nothing makes this man express regret. Even a statement that wildly ridiculous doesn’t drag out any change of countenance: Lehnsherr regards him as stonily as before. Nor does he bother to move from where the telepathy dropped him, halfway across the room. “It’s practical,” he begins in what he probably thinks is a reasonable tone. “If one of us were injured, access to hospital rooms and medical information depends on the proper documentation. Evidence of a bond would work just as well, but as that’s not an option, marriage was the logical alternative.”

Logical to someone without feelings, maybe. “And you didn’t think that, just maybe, I would want to have some say in that?”

“I didn’t have time for an argument.”

“And _I_ don’t have an inclination to be married to you. Why should your wishes be observed while mine are utterly eradicated?”

“Because your objections are ideological, while mine were practical and time sensitive.” The affront of being telepathically commanded must be ebbing away, leaving Lehnsherr to regain his usual mechanical, unemotional approach to everything a normal human would regard as important. “It’s only a piece of paper, Xavier.”

“Oh? Then you’ll have no objections to me sleeping with others?”

Bending down, Lehnsherr plucks the suitcase up off the floor and nestles it back on the bed. It’s fallen shut in the scuffle, but he pops it open again and calmly resumes digging through it, nudging aside with steady hands various articles of clothing that are presumably deterring him from reaching whatever he’s looking for. “A marriage certificate doesn’t change my views on that,” he answers, setting aside the suitcase and reaching for his sweatpants, which went flying during the scuffle. “As soon as the imprint occurred, celibacy became necessary.”

“For the first few months, maybe. Not after that.”

“ _Permanently._ ”

“Excuse me?” Platonic bonds are undeniably rare, but they do exist. There’s research on it, and, first order of business: get to the library and dig through everything that’s there on Sentinel/Guide bonding. Budapest is a large city, and there must be _something_.

“You constantly miss the obvious,” Lehnsherr bites out. A break in his calm? By God, it’s a miracle. And whatever it is that caused it, it’s under his skin: he slams his suitcase closed and grips it with an unnecessary firmness that turns his nails and knuckles bloodless until he drops it into the corner of the room and straightens back up, facing Charles. “There’s an extensive list of reasons why infidelity is inadvisable. Do I need to spell it out for you?”

“Oh, by all means, _do_.” Practically seething is no way to start a discussion on such a touchy subject, but the _nerve_. It’s unendurable. What’s he to be? A pretty toy on a shelf? Better than that: a _tool_ , meant only to ground Lehnsherr, help him function properly, and then slip back into the shadows when not needed. Lehnsherr’s not a complete asshole: he’d doubtless provide a comfortable lifestyle, but that’s not the point. That’s no life. That’s only existence.

Sighing, Lehnsherr begins popping the buttons on his suit jacket, making quick work of the first button before slipping his long fingers down to begin on the second. “It’s been proven that Sentinels and Guides who have regular sex also have stronger capabilities. And you and I have already demonstrated that sex is not a problem between us; I see no reason why we wouldn’t continue on with a good thing.”

“You want to fuck me because it will make you stronger.” The words come out toneless and blank, which is rather remarkable, given the rolling in his gut. That’s without a doubt the worst come-on he’s ever encountered—and for someone who has spent a large amount of time in pubs with drunken patrons, that’s saying something.

Lehnsherr rolls his eyes and shrugs his jacket off, hanging it neatly within the wardrobe. He doesn’t reply until he’s turned back around, and by that time he’s neatly composed himself into a picture of reason and calm. “I see no reason to deny myself an advantage, especially not when I find you attractive. Taking you to bed was a pleasure, and even if there were no biological benefit, I would gladly repeat the experience.”

How generous. But Lehnsherr’s words don’t mean much. They’re too mechanical, and despite watching Lehnsherr stripping down and putting away his clothes, Charles steps backward, bumping into the desk. Bloody thing—that’s going to bruise his hip.

When he looks back up, it’s to find Lensherr watching him silently, almost halfway done removing the waistcoat that had been tucked under his suit. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, scrunching up his brow and not bothering to hide the hint of confusion in his voice.

“I’m not afraid of you.” But somehow he’s ended up halfway across the room like the coward he’s claiming not to be. There’s no reason to act like this: Lehnsherr has given no indication that he’s inclined to be violent toward his mate. He’s proved himself overbearing and demanding, with a disturbing level of entitlement when it comes to having his orders followed, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to resort to physical violence—not the kind that would justify flinching away from him.

“No,” Lehnsherr remarks dryly, eyeing the amount of space between them. “I can see that.”

“You drugged me, abducted me, and dragged me halfway across the world.”

Shrugging out of his waistcoat, Lehnsherr turns away to hang it up next to the suit jacket. The motion ought to be normal, but there’s a sense of deliberation to it—a calculated offering of his back. Miracle of all miracles, Lehnsherr may be proving that he has a bit of tact and—dare it be said?—mercy.

It’s still insulting.

While he’s turned, Lehnsherr sheds his shirt as well, folding it neatly and placing it at the bottom of the wardrobe. Even bending over that small amount provides a decent view. Nice to know there was no mistake last night: Lehnsherr has the kind of body that most men could only dream of having. Long and lean, with sculpted muscles and a shoulder to waist ratio that ought to be illegal, given how attractive it is.

Sex is—sex may not be entirely out of the question: if he’s going to be required to sleep next to Lehnsherr for any lengthy amount of time, he’s either going to need to take a truly astonishing number of cold showers—which Lehnsherr will notice—or he’s going to need to disregard Lehnsherr’s personality for at least the few minutes it takes to have sex with him.

“And you’re perfectly unharmed,” Lehnsherr finally answers in response to the accusations leveled at him. Pivoting back around, he watches Charles with slightly darkened eyes that dart every so often, following each detail of Charles’ movements and reactions. “I can’t promise that I’ll never do you physical harm, but I can assure you that, if I do, it will not be on account of a domestic dispute. I would promise you more if I could, but in my line of… work, I’ve found it’s better not to make those promises.”

The desk is a solid support, and a convenient one to lean upon. Good thing, too, in the face of declaration like that. “I’m not going to help you kill people.”

Lehnsherr shrugs. “Then don’t. But I _will_ see you trained for the possibility that you might have to contend with others who don’t respect that boundary. And if I have to knock you on your ass a few times in order to make a self-defense lesson stick, I’ll do it. Better me than someone who genuinely wants to hurt you.”

Setting aside the fact that Lehnsherr is the one who put him in this position to begin with, that does make a twisted sort of sense. “You have a strange sense of courtesy, my friend.”

My friend. Not in _this_ lifetime.

Lehnsherr offers him a hint of a smile and makes a grab for the sweatpants that he’s left out on the bed. “My priority is to protect you—not to make you like me.”

“The best way to do both would be to choose a different profession.”

“Not possible.”

“And so the alternative is a good deal of celibate sex, a faked marriage certificate, and self-defense lessons?”

Lehnsherr’s quick smile is almost lost from view when he stoops down and steps out of his trousers, leaving him in only his boxers. Oh. _Oh_. Last night was too tangled with extenuating circumstances to truly allow him to appreciate how beautiful Lehnsherr is, but, although the hotel light is a bit murky, the same is not true of the present circumstance. There, right under Lehnsherr’s hip—Charles had licked that spot last night, bitten it, and there’s a mark left behind. It’s practically begging to be licked again, and he’d move from there on up, over the flat planes of Lehnsherr’s stomach, maybe tease at a nipple, and Lehnsherr could jerk him off—

“The certificate isn’t fake,” Lehnsherr interrupts, tugging on his sweatpants until they slide up over the curve of his ass to hang on his hips. Probably that ought to dim a little of the attraction, but the sweatpants leave the jut of his hipbones exposed, and while it’s a different kind of attractive than nakedness is, it’s still alluring. “And in addition to the benefits provided by sex between a bonded pair, it’s also a precaution: you’ll never be more inclined to blurt out sensitive information than when you’re in bed with someone. If you want to run your mouth, I’d rather you do it with me than with a random stranger. Worse, with someone who has purposely bedded you with the intention of gaining information.”

Meaning Lehnsherr has probably experienced that in the past. The twinge of pity that engenders is both unwelcome and impossible to completely ignore. “Most people typically just cite a worry about STDs and leave it at that.”

Lehnsherr’s mouth twitches. “Know that from personal experience, do you?”

“I’m clean.” Or he better well be. If not, it’s Lehnsherr’s fault for sharing. That, and a profound lack of common sense—though most people wouldn’t fault them for it, if they knew about the bond. A sensation like that isn’t crafted for rationality, and condoms don’t often factor into the mix when a pair recognizes each other.

“Good.”

That response appears to cover more than just one facet of the situation. God only knows what about it was meant to be a signal, but Lehnsherr takes a step forward once he’s spoken. He pauses to rake his gaze up and down Charles’ body, but he must find whatever he’s looking for; he begins moving forward again, this time with more conviction. It’s a good amount to process: the sheer, animalistic appeal and his movement, the suddenly diminishing space between them, and the chokehold that Lehnsherr’s advance instigates upon Charles’ lungs.

“Don’t touch me.”

Lehnsherr stops a foot or so in front of him, peering down at him with a bemused expression. A bit haughty too, in how he tilts his head and tips his jaw up, just a little, smirking like he knows something the world doesn’t.

This close, Charles can make out his scent. Warmth doesn’t have a scent, but the association still pops into his mind, followed closely by appreciation for the sharp, crisp scent of whatever cologne he’s wearing. It isn’t overpowering, but it does feel like an invitation to lean into Lehnsherr’s chest and breathe it in.

Instead, what bursts out of his mouth is: “You can’t just marry me without my consent.”

Lehnsherr’s eyebrows bow upward. “Talk about it later?”

“No. _Now_.”

That, and the fact that Lehnsherr drugged and abducted him. They’re in _Budapest,_ and that is not acceptable. Letting that all pass in favor of sex will set a terrible precedent….

And that may not be avoidable. So much for protesting: if he can’t convince himself he doesn’t want to have sex, how is he supposed to convince Lehnsherr?

Because, really: Lehnsherr may be the one leaning in and sneaking his hands onto Charles’ hips, but it’s not as though he’s facing any sort of protest—a fact that Lehnsherr has quickly recognized, judging by his widening grin, and the increasing pressure of his hands as he begins to squeeze his fingers into Charles’ sides, then down around to his lower back, handing out a mini-massage with all the confidence of someone who doesn’t expect rejection.

“Do this often?” A phrase like that feels like the last, poor line of defense against his own desires, but if he’s going to fall to this, he’s going to do it with at least a token protest. 

“No. It’s more trouble than it’s worth,” Lehnsherr murmurs, nosing in closely at Charles’ neck, and, when he still isn’t rebuffed, beginning to mouth at the skin there.

Before he can even begin to get a hold on what a very, very bad idea this is, Charles’ head falls to the side, offering better access. Moaning too, like a two-bit whore, when he ought to be—ought to—he ought to punch Lehnsherr, if he weren’t so damnably good with his mouth and hands…. 

“I meant what I said, you know.”

Lehnsherr doesn’t pause, but only hums out a vaguely questioning noise against the skin of Charles’ neck.

“I’m _not_ afraid of you. I don’t understand you, and— _fuck_ , I don’t know what the hell you might do—drugging me comes to mind—but I’m not _afraid_ ….”

“Good,” Lehnsherr murmurs, finally pulling back, only to lean in almost immediately and rub their cheeks together as he nuzzles up into the line of Charles’ hair. His hands keep climbing too, kneading their way up Charles’ back until they hook up under his arms and grasp at the tops of his shoulders. The hold pulls him in, pushing them flush against each other—except he’s still fully clothed, in comparison to Lehnsherr’s near-nudity. “I have no plans to hurt you.”

Not _I won’t hurt you_ , because Lehnsherr has already admitted that he can’t promise that. Somehow, though, the honesty is reassuring.

“Take your clothes off,” Lehnsherr murmurs.

Any clothes are too many, and it’s nice that they can finally agree on _something._ Nicer still that Lehnsherr has already set to work, moving away just enough to put sufficient space between them to allow him to pop open the buttons on Charles’ button down. He’s quick about it, though he grumbles something about “metal buttons,” and starts up a kiss in the meantime, licking his tongue along Charles’ lower lip while he pushes the shirt back and off. It tickles the back of Charles’ ankles when it lands, but one kick tosses it away. There are better things to concentrate on: that _mouth_ , and Lehnsherr’s tongue, which, like everything else about Lehnsherr, wants to dominate, and is willing to contend for it. 

When they do break apart, Lehnsherr huffs out a tiny laugh, apparently amused at not being handed control of the kiss. But, rather than complaining, he pushes back in: anyone else, and it would be too aggressive, nudging Charles’ head back with the force of it—so hard that Lehnsherr’s hand sliding up into his hair and cradling the back of his skull feels almost like an apology. Being challenged in bed never flagged up as appealing before, but this is _good_.

There’s a perfectly suitable bed in the middle of the room, but Lehnsherr isn’t indicating that he’s much inclined toward that right away. Everything is harder and faster, though things aren’t progressing any quicker chronologically. There might be something to the idea of blurred senses, with the way he’s falling into Lehnsherr’s rhythm and losing time.

Liking it, though—that’s the main thing. And it _is_ good. He gasps, lolling his head back when Lehnsherr hooks his hands under Charles’ legs and picks him up. Reflexively, he wraps his legs around Lehnsherr, hooking his ankles at the small of his back, and trusting his upper body weight to Lehnsherr’s hold. It isn’t necessary for very long: after a few halting steps, Lehnsherr shoves him up against the wall, pinning him there, shoving him higher, inch after inch with the force of his forward motion as he leans in, mouthing at Charles’ collarbone. The sheetrock catches at his skin and sweat smears over the white paint, and they’ll probably be charged a fee for damaging the room, but—Lehnsherr is paying, so by all means, continue.

“Harder,” he gasps. “Go harder.”

Lehnsherr does. He fucks like he lives: single-mindedly, and with a focused determination that is thrilling to experience.

The man brings multitasking to a whole new level too, popping the button of Charles’ trousers and unzipping his fly without ever touching either of them. “Shoes,” Charles mumbles, digging a hand into the hair at the back of Lehnsherr’s head and tugging, pulling a groan out of Lehnsherr, who tips his chin back and thrusts against Charles’ leg. Though, he does use the metal rivulets in the lace-holes of the shoes to tug the shoes off and away, discarding them with a loud thump somewhere near the bed.

The trousers follow directly after, peeling down over Charles’ legs: they tickle, and he squirms, squeaking out a tiny noise at the sensation. Embarrassing. Don’t let Lehnsherr have noticed—except he clearly has, and he’s laughing up toward the ceiling, but making no attempt to break free of Charles’ hold.

“Bed,” he orders, digging in the tips of his fingers and bearing his nails down into Lehnsherr’s scalp.

For what’s probably the first time in their acquaintance—it’s bloody hard to think like this—Lehnsherr does as he’s told, jerking back away from the wall. Charles’ skin pulls free of the wall with a wet smearing sound, and he tilts backward, leaning into the support of Lehnsherr’s hands at the bottom half of his back. “And get your trousers off,” he adds.

Two orders must be the breaking point: Lehnsherr drops him down onto the bed, heedless of how he bounces, and crawls up after him, half like an animal stalking its pray, and half utterly wrecked and desperate. His saving grace—or what prevents him from getting kicked—is the fact that he does pull his trousers down and shucks them, kicking them away off the edge of the bed.

“You’re an ass,” he bites out at Lehnsherr.

That isn’t meant to be a _compliment_ , but Lehnsherr grins like a loon, displaying a rather impressive array of teeth, and dives back down, this time dropping lower, lower, lower, and flattening his tongue out to begin nudging at Charles’ right nipple.

And how good it _does_ feel.

Murderer, prat, or just generally disagreeable, it doesn’t seem to matter when he has Lehnsherr’s full, undivided attention being paid to his body. He’d probably give up the whole bloody world right this moment if Lehnsherr asked, so long as Lehnsherr kept on touching.

There’s something utterly intoxicating about having his view blocked by Lehnsherr’s shoulders. Even sliding his hand up Lehnsherr’s side and counting his ribs, synching the numbers up with his breathing—it doesn’t make it feel real when it comes to hooking his arms up and under Lehnsherr’s shoulders until he can splay his fingers out on the curve of his spine. The situation flutters in front of his gaze—not a lack of reality so much as a lack of belief. 

This man is a murderer.

Erik Lehnsherr is a _murderer._

“Let me take you apart.”

Bloody hell. Those words are too throaty, and they sound too much as though Lehnsherr truly _wants_.

Stubbornly, he tips his mouth up and catches Lehnsherr’s lips, pressing deeper and turning the kiss filthy. “As if you could,” he hisses once they break apart. “You aren’t _that_ good.”

Lehnsherr chuckles. “ _Aren’t_ I?” And because he _is_ an ass—and lest Lehnsherr ever allow anyone to forget that—he snakes his hand down between them and curls his hand around Charles’ cock. “Instead of insulting me, you should tell me what you want, Charles. I might give it to you.”

They don’t use given names. Do they? “Fuck off.”

“More of the first, less of the second.”

There’s never a time where Lehnsherr won’t fight to prove his point, is there? He keeps up flexing his fingers, kneading at Charles’ cock, then slipping lower to tease at his balls, rolling them gently. No sexually aware man could avoid moaning at that, not when Lehnsherr seems to have a secondary mutation that allows him to catalogue his partner’s responses and adjust accordingly. Lehnsherr is _good_ at what he’s doing.

And he knows it.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want—“ A burst of pleasure cuts off the sentence. “I _want_ you to take me to Oxford.”

But that isn’t enough: the building heat in his groin is wiping out rational thought, and it only grows worse when Lehnsherr begins thumbing the head of his cock, squeezing gently in time with the touches. If Lehnsherr left right now, let him return to Oxford—what then? What _now?_ Later, a plane ticket. Orgasm, now.

“Try again.”

He’s so smug. So damnably smug. “Ah—fuck—Lehnsherr—“

“Erik. Try saying _that_.”

Whatever he wants, if he’ll just keep doing such clever things with his hand. “ _Erik.”_

A soft moan falls out of Lehnsherr’s suddenly slack mouth. When he leans in, pressing their foreheads together, his pupils are blown wide and he can’t seem to make the air in his lungs stick long enough to gain any breath from it. “W _ell_ …” he half drawls, but the smugness is a bit ruined by the harsh pant that escapes after the drawn out end of the word. “We’ll make this work, all right?” The warm air fans out over Charles’ cheek, tickling, but rather than ducking away he leans up into it, pressing his cheek to Lehnsherr’s mouth.

Lehnsherr takes the hint and puts his mouth back to what is decidedly the best task he’s used it for thus far in their short acquaintance: if only all their interactions ended in Lehnsherr giving him pleasure. He’s so admirably meticulous like this, scraping his teeth lightly down the skin of Charles’ jaw, trailing higher and biting down properly at the corner, where the jawline angles off and juts upward.

There will almost certainly be a mark. But—what could that possibly matter, when there’s already a far more prominent mark high on his neck, just back from where Lehnsherr is leaving a love bite.

It isn’t enough. Lehnsherr’s hand is still diligently fondling him, occasionally tightening up and giving him a good stroke, twisting from root to tip, but he won’t come like this, and the memory of the first time is plenty of incentive anyway to ask for more. “Can you prep me?” He tugs at Lehnsherr’s hair, pulling his mouth away. Lehnsherr bends with the physical command, arching his head back and bowing his neck. “Or do I need to draw you a diagram before you get the idea—“

Maybe not. Lehnsherr has the idea just fine. Very well, in fact. Very, _very_ well.

“So _mouthy_.” He—is he teasing? His tone is light, and a quick grin licks at the corners of his mouth, but with Lehnsherr it’s so difficult to be sure.

But—a quick brush of his mind, just at the surface where he won’t feel it, confirms: there’s actual amusement there and—affection. Not the bone deep kind that only comes after a longer acquaintance, but a lighter, almost fascinated sensation, as though Lehnsherr is _getting to know him_ , and rather likes what he’s finding.

Still, if Lehnsherr is currently determined to tease—well, there are easy ways to knock that thought out of his head. They don’t even require telepathy. 

No one has ever claimed that Charles is an inadequate lover, and quite a few people, both male and female, have commented on how delightfully blatant he can be when it comes to his body’s reactions. Mostly, that comes naturally—he’s always been rubbish at keeping quiet during sex or at tamping down on his body’s responses—but it works just as well intentionally: letting out a purposefully long and low groan, he jerks his hips upward, bumping both his cock and his hips against Erik’s stomach. Then, another unchecked whimper as he screws his eyes shut, hooking his hands around Erik’s back and getting a good grip on his ribcage, and guiding him forward.

It works splendidly. Lehnsherr overbalances and just barely catches himself before falling flat on Charles’ chest, but the movement puts them flush against each other. Most importantly, their hips: the heat is incredible, and he must look deranged and more than a little wicked, with the way he can feel he’s smiling, but the situation _does_ call for it. Murderer Erik may be, but… he has the physique for this, and, better yet, he’s proving that he knows how to use it.

There’s the temptation to worry: is Charles of average size, and no one ever bothered to tell him? Only, Lehnsherr seems well pleased with what he’s getting, and the heat in his eyes when he glances over Charles is real and arresting. Lehnsherr must simply be very well endowed.

“You want me to fuck you?” Erik breathes against his lips.

“I’ve already told you, _yes_.” How many times must he repeat it?

Even in his kisses, Lehnsherr is a bastard: that deep, tongued kiss that teases at slipping deeper into Charles’ mouth, but that pulls back and turns to a grin just as he tries to respond—Lehnsherr can go straight to hell for teasing like this. “Five minutes ago, you were demanding I not touch you.”

“And now I’m giving you permission, so _get on with it_.”

“Ask nicely _._ ”

Lehnsherr is a sadist. There’s no other explanation. A cruel, vicious sadist, who—oh, who is really very talented with his fingers when he puts his mind to it. He—where did the lube come from? Had Lehnsherr had it all along? Had—?

Why is he _stopping_?

There’s nothing wrong. Lehnsherr wouldn’t be grinning if there were a problem, and his fingers wouldn’t be lingering just below Charles’ balls. Seeing all those teeth bared in a smile is almost insulting, but it’s mostly terrifying: Lehnsherr is enjoying this pause, and that’s not promising at all.

“Come _on_ ,” he tries to order Lehnsherr, going so far as to dig a hand into Lehnsherr’s hair and twist, fighting to drag him down for another kiss. But Lehnsherr braces himself with his hands on either side of Charles’ body and pushes back, tensing his neck and refusing to bend. What kind of idiot finds teasing more appealing than actually properly having sex?

“I _said_ , ask nicely.”

He was serious when he demanded that? “What?” His hand stills in Lehnsherr’s hair, and while it doesn’t loosen, he stops trying to pull, giving in instead to the urge to flex his fingers. 

Lehnsherr still doesn’t move. He lingers, crouched over Charles, and while his muscles are tensed and the intensity of his gaze is… hypnotizing, he’s showing no signs of giving in prior to getting what he wants.

Fine. But if that’s a game Lehnsherr wants to play, he’d best be prepared to have it eventually turned on him.

“Please…”

That grin widens, and Lehnsherr tilts his head to the side. “Please…?”

“Please, _Erik_ ,” he murmurs, curling his tongue around the name and drawing it out, as thickly as he can manage.

Lehnsherr’s pupils blow wide.

“Please, fuck m— _oh_.”

There’s nearly no time to think. Lehnsherr drives one finger, coated in lube, up into him, reaching with his thumb at the same time and rubbing firmly at the space behind Charles’ balls, caressing at a point deeper inside of him.

It drives him mad. How long has it been since someone has tried to take him apart like this? No one night stand—not the kinds he picks up—is willing to remain firm in the face of his complaints, but Erik must find his frustration and anger appealing, and, damn it, he _pushes_. He’s a right smug bastard, but—

“Er— _ik—!_ ”

That’s his prostate. And Erik—he obviously is pleased with himself for finding it. But it isn’t only smugness. His eyes are almost all pupil, and he’s flushed and sweaty, looking borderline obscene with his hair rumpled and messed in Charles’ grasp.

When he does move on toward adding another finger, he’s slower about it: his brow wrinkles and he occasionally glances up at Charles’ face. He might not want his worry to be seen, but for the first time in their acquaintance—or second, but the first had been too bond-drunk for noticing anything—Erik’s face baldly displays his emotion. He’s working not to cause pain or harm, and the care of it is visible in the singular focus he applies. “All right?” he asks when he begins scissoring his fingers.

“Yes. More.” Half-whimpered, but they’re both too far gone for embarrassment.

Not that a request like that will be answered right away, but the half minute in between, in which Erik continues to work him open with two fingers, lights up the nerves in his spine. He arches on Erik’s hand, grinding down against it and catching the base of Erik’s fingers against his hole, popping them in and out with a delicious hint of pain. All the tugging he’s doing must be sore on Erik’s scalp, but no protest comes, and when Charles does finally let go in favor of latching onto Erik’s shoulders, a small clench of the jaw gives away Erik’s regret—had he actually liked the roughness?

Strange that he would, when he’s being so very careful. He’s thorough, and he doesn’t sink back into the insult of treating Charles like spun glass, but, as insane as it sounds, so far he’s a careful lover. Odd, then, that he’s at home with having roughness dealt in his own direction.

By the time Erik adds a third finger, Charles is hard and leaking, and he’s hooked his hands down into the sheets, pulling the fabric up into cloth pyramids that he just as quickly crushes back down when he smacks his fists onto the bed every time Erik hits his prostate.

“All right?” Erik asks, dropping a quick kiss to the corner of Charles’ mouth. Apparently pleased by the effect—Charles squirms and bucks against him—he hums, and moves higher, pecking at Charles’ check, under his eye, the bridge of his nose…

And, bastard that he is, when he pulls his fingers out all at once, it’s possible to feel his lips curve into a smile.

“That—that was—“ But getting words out while panting is a dubious endeavor at best and, at worst, a completely disjointed assault on phonics. In this case, words fail, and he settles for smacking Erik’s shoulder and reveling in the wet slap of sweaty flesh.

“Hm. Are you this rough with all your lovers, or is it just me?”

As though giving Erik another reason to think himself special is at all advisable—even if it _is_ true. He’s always been a bit less careful with his male partners, but he’s never alternated between trying to herd them into his doing his bidding and physically railing out against them when they don’t.

Then again, none of his previous lovers have ever drugged him and kidnapped him: there’s a damn good reason for a little pent up tension. Anyway, the number of teeth Erik is showing would indicate that he’s unrepentantly pleased at the prospect—and at the execution. Pleased enough, anyway, that he keeps on grinning even when he slicks up his cock and then tosses the tube of lubricant away into the sheets.

“I don’t know,” Charles shoots back as churlishly as he can while he’s solidly tucked under Erik and most decidedly at a physical disadvantage. “Are you normally this much of a tease, or is it only me?”

“Definitely only you.”

“Then I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that _this_ —“ And he pauses, darting a hand down between them and giving Erik’s cock a good, firm squeeze, and then smirking sweetly up at the gobsmacked expression on Erik’s face, “is something you know how to use. Though, if you’re unsure, do let me know, and—oh, _fuck._ ”

Because Erik does—know how to use his cock, that is. He’s—goodness, he’s really very large, and he hasn’t thrust in very far, but just that quick breach steals the breath out of Charles’ lungs and reduces him to a wide-eyed mess.

Erik pauses immediately once he’s in, hovering over Charles with a careful solicitude that’s checked only by his labored breathing and the miniature spasm that seems to have taken over his brow, resulting in a desperate attempt to squeeze his eyes so tightly closed that they wrinkle at the corners. “Been a while, I take it?” he hisses once he’s gained sufficient control of himself. Good. As satisfying as it would be to mock Erik for losing it like a teenager, the prospect of a good fucking is far more tempting.

He strokes a hand down Erik’s neck and down the top of his spine, fingering the bumps with more tenderness than he’s shown thus far. Call it delirium: he can hardly think past the stretch. “Hmm?”

“You’re _tight_.”

“It _has_ been a while.”

“I thought you said—“

“Stop _talking_.”

By some miracle, Erik obliges, twitching his hips forward a few inches more. This time, after a few moments of concentrated attempts to relax, Charles’ inner muscles flutter and give, and Erik is able to slide the rest of the way in, burying himself balls deep. 

“That’s good,” Charles murmurs, and, on a whim, he cups Erik’s head with the palm of his hand and yanks him forward, sealing their mouths together. It’s more of a sharing of air than it is a kiss, but the heat of it sizzles down through his nerves and lights him up, and by the time Erik begins to move properly, they’re panting into each other, groaning against each other’s lips.

At first, the pressure of Erik’s cock is almost too much. It _has_ been a long time, and Erik is well endowed. But after the second or third thrust Erik finds his prostate, and if Charles weren’t a panting mess before, he can’t possibly be deemed anything else _now_.

Erik is no better. Every thrust he makes is accompanied by a pointed, staccato moan that rips out of his gut with an almost alarming intensity. By this point he’s fallen to his elbows, bracketing Charles in and creating a tight, warm space where their bodies meet each time he thrusts up and finds himself met counterpoint by Charles’ own bucking hips.

It doesn’t last long. They’ve been too desperate for too long, and with the bond still so new, fervency is running higher, and any hope of slow, languid lovemaking is stomped clean away. This ought to be animal instinct, all things considered, but—it’s not quite that. Erik is—too bloody beautiful, and the look on his face is heartbreaking. Wider open now, too similar to wonder and near shock at what he’s found under him. His face twists up when he shoves in one last time and tips over into orgasm, wiping out that strange expression, but it doesn’t altogether cancel the sentiment, and when he comes down from his high, panting and trying to catch his breath, he smoothes back Charles’ hair and kisses his forehead before reaching for Charles’ cock.

“Little harder….”

Erik doesn’t tease this time: he firms up his hand, and seconds later Charles comes, gritting his teeth and whining high in his throat. It’s good, so very good, and he can’t breathe, can’t—

When the whiteness that’s obscuring his vision finally clears, he comes to and finds Erik in the process of rolling off him and dropping onto his side. One of his legs remains draped over Charles’ own, but he’s very considerately refrained from crushing Charles with his weight.

Considerate. As bloody insane as it sounds, Erik Lehnsherr is a considerate lover.

It doesn’t quite compute. Maybe it’s the lack of air: he’s still panting, trying to reign in his pounding heart rate to a more manageable level. In the meantime, though, he’s left sprawled over the bed, one arm arched upward where he can tuck his face in the crook of his elbow and try not to believe he’s gone insane. Occam’s Razor and all that: insanity would be the most obvious explanation.

The alternative? That Lehnsherr is, against all odds, both one of the world’s worst bastards and a surprisingly solicitous lover. A _good_ lover. Really, in all honestly, so damn good _this_ time, that, with a little practice, they could probably end up having the best sex Charles has ever had.

It isn’t supposed to be this easy. Sex is not a magical occurrence in which both lovers are always mutually satisfied. It can be messy and awkward, with the parties involved climaxing at different times, and with one partner falling asleep without getting the other off—rather like that one Cambridge bloke he’d met in a pub that one time, who’d fallen asleep still on top of Charles and then, upon being gently dumped sideways onto the mattress, had blinked open blurry eyes and had the gall to exclaim, sounding remarkably surprised, “You’re still here?”

For it to be this good with someone he neither knows nor likes—whom he actively _dislikes_....

“ _Verdammt_ , stop thinking.”

Dislikes. Yes. With such a charming personality, it’s a wonder someone hasn’t shot Lehnsherr yet.

Probably not for lack of trying.

“I—“

“Go. To. Sleep.” It’s anyone’s guess why Lehnsherr thinks that order will be aided by turning over and slinging an arm over Charles’ side and reeling him in, but Lehnsherr must have some rationale behind it. Whim or not, his grip is firm, with his fingertips pressing five points of heat into the small of Charles’ back, until he relents with the pressure once he has Charles fully tucked against him. Like this, they’re face to face with their legs tangled and—there’s nowhere to put his hands, except for directly against Lehnsherr’s chest. When he does, Lehnsherr lets slip an approving hum and drops another kiss onto Charles’ brow, just over his eyebrow, trailing his lips across the arch of it until he reaches Charles’ temple.

“Lehnsherr—“

“Erik.”

“What?”

An irritated, sleepy sigh. “You should get in the habit of using my name. Knowing you, you’ll slip up at a border, and people will ask questions.”

 _What?_ Is he serious? Does everything have to be cloak and dagger? They’re in _bed_ , for goodness sake: that’s no fine place to talk strategy. “I’ll call you whatever I bloody well please—“

Lehnsherr sighs. “Of course you will. Forgive me, _Charles_ , for trying to be civil.”

“You weren’t—“ But he stops, closing his mouth and biting lightly at the side of his tongue. What if Lehnsherr _is_ trying to be civil? For someone so emotionally constipated, simply _asking_ to be on a first name basis might very well be out of the realm of possibility. “Fine.”

Lehnsherr acknowledges the concession with a firm, pleased noise that rumbles against Charles’ temple, where Lehnsherr has allowed his lips to linger. 

That’s it. They’re in a foreign country, but all Lehnsherr cares to do is drift off to sleep—and they’ll pay in the morning for not having washed up first—as though this sort of thing is perfectly _normal_. They’ve not sorted anything out, and while the revelation that they’re very compatible sexually is a welcome discovery, that’s hardly going to solve any bigger problems.

“We’ll work it out in the morning,” Lehnsherr mutters quietly.

That statement seems to call for a biting retort, but… this time, Lehnsherr’s voice is measured and even, and coated with a liberal dose of compassion. Nothing as syrupy as outright pity or even rampant emotion, but it’s softened to the point where his voice matches the relaxation of his body.

That sort of quiet is catching. The languid sprawl of his limbs—one arm thrown over Charles’ waist, their legs tangled haphazardly—coaxes Charles’ own muscles into relaxing, and despite the constant persistence of his brain, eventually that physical languidness drags him down until he’s blinking a little more heavily, and Erik’s warmth and closeness are easier to accept.

It won’t last. Tomorrow all the problems will still exist. They may become easier with a good night’s sleep, but they won’t have vanished.

But tonight…

Nothing needs to be solved tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

Charles is still asleep when the sun peeks fully over the horizon. It’s an appealing sight—both the sunrise and Charles—and the view from the table by the window is perfectly situated to appreciate both, especially in conjunction with each other. When the light steals in past curtains they’d never bothered to close, it licks at Charles’ back, illuminating his freckles, and flushing out the colors in his hair to an attractive chestnut.

Charles had been one hell of a fuck last night. The first time was good, but last night was… better. Not perfect, but so damn near close to the promise of it in the future that, for the first time in years, there’s a niggling sense of something to look forward to, beyond killing Schmidt. If Charles will continue to oblige—and it shouldn’t take much to convince him, based on the available evidence—there may well be a reason to gladly anticipate returning to the hotel at night.

In the meantime, there are more pressing matters. He’d scanned the room for bugs and other devices as soon as they’d entered by checking for the metal that he’s long since learned to recognize, and, before fucking Charles into the mattress, he’d had a good, long look at the defensibility of the room—Charles didn’t seem to wonder why it took so long just to fold and put away clothes—but that still leaves the matter of their link.

However, for any degree of exploration to take place in that sector, Charles needs to be awake. It wouldn’t take much: a gentle shake to the shoulder probably wouldn’t alarm him over-much, and it isn’t wise to be wasting time like this, but… there are other things that can be accomplished in the meantime. And Charles can’t possibly sleep much later with the way the sun is shinning onto the bed. His back is turned to it, but he’ll overheat before long, and that will wake him naturally in good time.

For now, there’s time to unload the suitcase, and to have a look at the list of potential contacts. He’d requested a phone book when he’d made the hotel reservation—and, yes, right there on the bedside table. Hungarian is tricky, but something as simple as a phonebook can be puzzled out. It’s all just names and numbers. It’ll do well enough for the cross-referencing that’s necessary, just to make sure old contacts—or, more accurately, the fronts for those contacts—are active and in the same places.

As it turns out, that’s not much of a problem. Ten minutes into the endeavor, and he’s already reassured: the main contact is still in the same location, and while several other, smaller people who might be useful are not readily recognizable, one old friend who wants to be found is apt to provide the contact information for acquaintances who are somewhat reluctant to reestablish contact. 

Or, in some cases, to establish first—and potentially last—contact. 

Taking another sip of his coffee—nasty, cheap stuff, but it was in the basket in the corner next to the machine that’s now happily bubbling away—he scribbles down another set of numbers and glances back over at Charles. He’s growing more restless, but he’s not yet at the point of waking. The man has the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. Resting in a strange place, with someone who might not be completely trustworthy, and yet he’s sleeping soundly.

What would that feel like? It’s been so long since the opportunity for undisturbed sleep has presented itself. If it isn’t the location preventing it, it’s the nightmares. His last settled sleep was before Auschwitz, certainly—the years after have been one long cycle of constant readiness. Any noise, any presence, and he wakes.

Except Charles. Every other partner, he’s either politely escorted out—better to meet in a neutral location, where he can be the one to leave—or, in the one instance where the girl fell asleep before he could see her out, he spent the whole night awake waiting for morning. Charles is the only one beside whom he’s ever fallen asleep.

And last night….

It’s half insane. Another swig of coffee won’t change that, but he takes a gulp anyway, and welcomes the burning down his throat as a fair exchange for a cessation of thought. Too bad those thoughts return once the burn fades.

Charles.

He’d not only slept beside Charles, but he’d actively encouraged Charles to fall asleep against him, and while he might have feigned sleep until he was certain Charles was himself unconscious, the fact that he’d slept in Charles’ presence at all is extraordinary. Definitely unprecedented.

Whether or not that’s true for Charles remains to be seen, but there’s little question that Charles has had affairs before, and it’s not much of a stretch to envision Charles trusting those lovers to the point of sleeping next to them. Stupid, but most people are when it comes to these things, and it doesn’t matter much now anyway: Charles may safely sleep around _him_.

It’s the waking hours that pose more of a problem—and an imminent one.

Sighing thickly—the noise is almost a snuffle—Charles flips over to his stomach, flopping one arm down over the side of the bed, the backs of his fingers skimming over the carpet. He makes another breathy noise into the pillow and flexes his fingers, scratching lightly at the carpet with his fingertips. It takes him a moment, but the texture appears to rouse him, and the blanket draped over his lower half rises and falls when he shifts his hips, fidgeting and, in the process, edging closer and closer to full consciousness.

The moment when Charles wakens fully and remembers his exact location is obvious: he goes unnaturally still, and the broad width of his shoulders, which is visible above where the blanket has slipped to his hips, tenses, knotting up the muscles. It gets worse when he shoves against the bed to get his arms under him, and by the time he whips himself around onto his backside, all the tension that’s usually present has leaked back into his body.

“Morning,” Erik greets him simply, nodding toward the coffee maker. “Coffee?”

With his hair sticking up in several different directions, and with those eyes as round as they can possibly go, Charles resembles a disheveled owlet. In the privacy of their own room, there might be something to be said for admitting that the look is an endearing one. Though, god only knows how Charles would react to being considered endearing.

“Not well, damn you,” Charles snaps, narrowing his eyes into a shape with more edges. Fits his changing mood well enough.

“Skim surface thoughts in the morning, do you?”

As imperative as it is that Charles remains clear of any deeper thoughts, there’s not much cause to keep him from the banal thoughts of daily life.

But as violently as Charles recoils back against the headboard, one would think he’d been offered a vicious rebuff.

“I made coffee,” Erik repeats, nodding again toward the coffeemaker. “That’s no reason for you to look at me like I’ve killed your puppy. Or do you have something against coffee?”

“Is it _drugged_?” Charles hisses—but he does slide to the side, dropping his legs over the edge of the bed and climbing gingerly to his feet. “Where are my boxers?”

“Just get a new set out of the suitcase.” After last night, Charles’ clothing had been strewn across the floor, and gathering it up and placing it in the wardrobe had felt neater and easier than leaving it for Charles to collect when he woke. 

The alacrity with which Charles hurries over toward the suitcase where it’s been placed in the bottom of the wardrobe is almost laughable. It’s been twice now that Erik has had occasion to learn every inch of Charles’ body: any hope for modesty ought to have been firmly quashed, and yet here he is, scrambling for his boxers like a blushing virgin.

Once he’s covered, he does regain a small measure of his composure, at least to the point where he can turn to face Erik head on. With his arms crossed over his chest, his bearing is decidedly prickly, and in the morning light he doesn’t have much hope of hiding the love bites over his neck and chest. It’s a good thing the table is between them and stationed at the proper level to hide the interest that sight creates.

That thought doesn’t draw a reaction out of Charles, which must mean he’s stopped listening. He simply doesn’t have the poker face necessary to hide his reactions to what he overhears—and it’s odd that he stops listening so _easily_. Is it a matter of being afraid of what he might find out? Because it isn’t respect. Or, if it is, it’s a version of it that’s heavily dosed in self-fear. That might be closer to the truth. They’ll need to work on that. Boundaries are necessary—married or not, no one ought to be riffling through Erik’s inner thoughts—but it’s no good to have Charles fear his powers either.

“Sleep well?” he asks Charles, pushing his papers aside toward the edge of the table.

 “Tolerably.”

 That’s a lie. Charles slept soundly. Too bad it hasn’t done much to improve his mood. “There’s a room service menu there,” he says, nodding toward the edge of the table where the menu was discarded before the cyclone of his own papers hit the surface. “Order what you like.”

 “Generous,” Charles answers with a decided iciness to his tone, but he does stalk over to the edge of the table and snatch up the menu. “What would _you_ like?” he asks after a few seconds of scanning the print. His tone has faded to an easier, less hostile level. The prospect of food will do that—or perhaps it’s simply not typical to Charles’ nature to sustain it.

 “Whatever you’re having, just double it.”

 “No preference?”

 “It doesn’t matter to me.” Most foods are agreeable, and, even those that aren’t especially palatable are still tolerable. And anything Charles orders him off that menu is going to fall into the first category: the hassle of reading the menu himself isn’t worth it when whatever Charles picks for him will be acceptable.

 While Charles shoots him a glance that says he isn’t satisfied with that answer, he nevertheless picks up the phone and sets about making the call, presumably deciding that if Erik isn’t going to cooperate, he can live with disliking whatever food he’s served. He’ll quickly learn that won’t be the case, but, for the time being, let him maintain his suspicions, since it’s easier than working to convince him, when actions will bear out the proof soon enough.

 Charles orders two helpings of Ham, Csabai sausage, Óvári cheese, and boiled egg. When he’s finished placing the order, he glances back over at Erik, waiting for a comment. When nothing negative comes his way, he gradually moves back over toward the table, and, when a rebuff still doesn’t come, pours himself a cup of coffee before pulling out the chair opposite Erik and seating himself.

 “We need to work on exploring our link today,” he tells Charles once he’s seated and has settled to the point where he can take a sip of coffee without looking askance at Erik.

 There’s a pause, in which Charles doesn’t answer, choosing instead to hold the cup steady at his lips where he can hide behind it, peering over the rim at Erik. The tactic would be more effective if it didn’t pair his lips with the paleness of the mug, highlighting exactly how appealing that mouth is.

 Eventually, though, Charles does lower the mug back to the table. “All right,” he agrees finally. “That’s reasonable.”

 Not only reasonable, but as beneficial to Charles as it is to Erik. Having his Sentinel zone out is going to kick Charles into a state of anxiety too, and learning to anchor Erik and draw him back when he overreaches himself will be the only thing that will quell the alarm Charles will feel when that happens. Makes sense: if not for that pull to help his Sentinel, a Guide could walk away and leave said Sentinel in a state of hyper-awareness.

 As it turns out, though, “reasonable” only goes so far. Breakfast goes well enough, with Charles not-so-subtly twisting his face into a perplexed expression when he realizes that Erik truly is not going to complain about having random food offered to him. They both relax and silently—though not uncompanionably—eat a well-cooked meal without any further flairs of temper. However, once the dishes have been pushed aside, Charles again takes to eyeing the documents on the table and fidgeting in his chair, half from what looks like nerves, but largely from some sort of hyper-vigilance at the prospect of once again finding himself on the losing end of some sort of stratagem.

 Starting this out with one partner convinced the bond is a new and creative way to manipulate him is likely not the best foundation for a successful first attempt at getting this right.

 “Most theories on this suggest you ought to start small, by concentrating on an object, and trying to focus in on details about it that would be imperceptible to the naked eye—“

 “Yes, I’m aware.” That wasn’t meant unkindly, and it didn’t _sound_ overly hostile—did it? It didn’t to his own ears, but Charles bristles immediately. That seems an overreaction. Most school-aged children know those basics, and that answer was only meant to confirm that he’s among them. “There ought to be skin to skin contact, at least at first.”

 Charles nods sharply and sucks in a deep breath through his nose. “I know.”

 “Here.” He holds out his hand. It hangs there for a moment, over the table between them, his elbow perched amongst the papers. Charles stares, blinking, and again the impression of an owl solidifies: with his hair still messy from bed, and with his eyes that round, the perception is a difficult one to dispel. “I won’t bite, Charles.”

 And so Charles must be thinking: he nods down to the marks on his chest, glaring nastily across the table.

 “Fair point, but you know that isn’t what I meant.”

 Huffing, Charles links their hands. Whether he’s hitting or taking Erik’s hand is anyone’s guess, but it serves the purpose. His reluctance is palpable, but there’s nothing that can be done about it.

 In a way, it’s understandable. In Charles’ mind, working with the bond must equate with cementing the connection between them, and there isn’t much question that Charles hasn’t yet accepted that they’re inseparably linked. Mostly, it’s just a wonder that he’s consenting to work on this at all.

 “Ready?”

 A short, sharp nod.

 Not that there’s really any means of being properly prepared for this. All the same, he zeros in on the mug of coffee. Like looking closely, they’d said in school—when he’d still been able to go to school. So closely, and then closely becomes _more_.

 That’s exactly what happens. One moment he’s running his eyes over the curve of the mug’s handle, trying to calculate the degree of the angle, and the next the mug is swimming in his vision, with individual sections of the ceramic coming into focus with enough detail to allow for observation of the sheen, of the tiny chip on the edge that wouldn’t be visible to the naked eye, of the exact point where the handle starts to curve… but none of it is stable. Everything swims in his vision, hovering and sliding in and out of focus, with no ability to hold any one point long enough to examine it.

 And then it stabilizes.

 The period of time in which the stability holds is brief, and it’s too surprising for him to do more than register that it’s happening. It’s like a runaway train being yanked to a halt: there’s a sharp pulse in his brain, and Charles is _there_ , and then everything settles to the point where he can run his gaze over the mug without slipping between details. This is _focus_.

As quickly as it comes, it pulls away again, and this time it hauls him out of his perception along with it. The world snaps back into its usual resolution, and though he’s left swaying, one hand gripping the edge of the table for balance, nothing is out of place. 

Nothing other than Charles’ chalk-white face.

“That wasn’t my telepathy,” he says slowly, drawing the words out with apparent disbelief.

Is that what he thought? That this would simply be another facet of his telepathy? That it would be a phenomenon that was familiar, and his alone to control? If so, it’s little wonder that he can’t face any of this. This isn’t _Charles_ : it’s both of them, together, and as disagreeable as that is, it’s reality, and it’s futile not to face that. Denial is what children do. Small, terrified children who are crying for a mother that will never again be able to answer. And if Erik’s mother never had the chance to answer back, then how the hell can anyone else be relied upon to do so? Crying for what won’t answer is pointless.

What Charles is doing is _pointless_.

“The bond is not equitable with your telepathy.” Charles’s knuckles whiten, and he grips the edges of the table harder than he was before. A slight flush rises in his cheeks, eating up the previous paleness. “You’d do well to stop trying to control them in the same way: a mistake like that could cost you your life—and it could cost me mine.”

“That’s a price I’m willing to pay,” Charles hisses, and then immediately— _hmm_ , it’s almost endearing, how Charles’ own insults kick back at him, reprimanding him internally for his cruelty. “I’m sorry.” As stiff as those words are, he does sound like he means it. “That was uncalled for, and I apologize.”

Erik shrugs. “I don’t much care whether you _want_ to kill me, provided that you don’t act upon it.” The reality remains: if Charles wanted him dead, he’d be a husk of a human being faster than he could think to resist.

But it’s becoming increasingly clear that Charles isn’t morally capable of doing that without serious provocation.

“Look,” he tells Charles, taking another sip of his coffee, “I don’t _want_ to make your life miserable. I have a task that needs to be completed, and it’s only bad luck that you’ve been drawn into it. I wouldn’t have chosen to do things this way. 

“And _I_ didn’t choose anything at all, because _you_ chose _for_ me.” 

“That’s true.” Charles startles and lets go of the table, narrowly missing taking out his coffee with his elbow on the way. The way Charles acts, he must have some odd conception of Erik as the villain of this story, plotting new and dastardly ways to thwart him at every turn. “I’m not sure why you’re surprised: I’ve been very up front with you. I _will_ find Schmidt, no matter what the cost. After I have—after that, we can talk about what _you_ want.”

After Schmidt is dead, Charles will likely be a widower anyway. But, provided Erik survives, then what harm would there be in letting Charles choose their course? Surviving Schmidt had never seemed much of a reality, and Charles is the first thing in years that has even tempted him to consider a future beyond that. And by the time Schmidt is dead, the bond will be stable enough to allow for a week or two of separation: plenty of time to occasionally follow the trail of a few Nazis who escaped justice. Spending the rest of his time in an academic town fucking Charles at night wouldn’t be much of a hardship. After all these years, that kind of relaxation might be welcome.

“But until then, I have to play party to a murder,” Charles shoots back, staring down his nose at Erik. It ought to make him appear snobby, but all it really manages is to leave him looking sadly insecure and upset.

Is that it? Is it his conscience that’s making him so irritable? If that’s the problem—well, it isn’t _entirely_ unreasonable, and it may have been a bit of an oversight to ignore this part of Charles. Most people aren’t hardened killers, and that’s something that should have been factored in when dealing with Charles, who is so ludicrously far from being a person who would kill without guilt.

“Come here,” he tells Charles, planting one foot against the floor and sliding the chair back away from the table to make room.

Charles doesn’t move. If anything, his look grows increasingly wary.

“I mean it.” Holding out a hand, he beckons lightly, crooking his fingers toward Charles. “I’m not going to hurt you."

“I _know_ that,” Charles bites out, but the hard swallow of his throat suggests maybe he doesn’t know it quite as well as he’d like. But Charles does seem to dislike being seen as a coward, which is probably why after a few more seconds he unseats himself and shuffles forward around the table, stopping in front of where Erik is sprawled with his legs hanging open over the front of the chair.

Before Charles can protest, he gets a hold of Charles’ hips and gives a good, solid tug that tumbles Charles down into his lap. Immediately, warmth spreads between them, and a pleasant sensation begins to bloom. Charles, despite his sharp tongue, is a mind filled with wit, and a hell of a fuck. There are worse people to be bound to, and if they’re stuck with each other, they may as well try to make it work. Instances like this—holding Charles—are probably a good start.

“I need to meet with a contact today,” he tells Charles, hooking an arm around Charles’ side and cutting off the squirming that appears more from surprise than from displeasure at being touched: Charles quiets quickly, though his mouth continues to hang open, dumbfounded at the situation in which he’s found himself. “We can’t be apart, so you’ll need to come along. And, in the meantime, we can work more on our link.”

“And if I say no?” he asks, tipping the right side of his jaw upward and peering down at Erik suspiciously. Slowly, his hands come up to perch on Erik’s shoulders, flexing once, then again, before he firms up his grip and holds on properly.

“Then I’ll walk out the door and wait in the hallway: we’ll see who breaks first.” 

Charles. In a battle of wills like that, it will always be Charles. He’s not accustomed to denying the needs of his body, and when faced with a man whose whole life has been filled with that denial, he doesn’t have a chance. But, if he wants to try, then they may as well get the attempt out of the way now when the situation isn’t dire.

“But…” Leaning back, he offers Charles a small smile. “I’d prefer that not everything be a fight. We could go out to dinner afterward. Walk in the park and work on the link. Maybe find a bookstore that sells books in English.”

“And at what point are you going to stop thinking you run this situation?” Charles asks, still holding himself aloof. He’s given in and relaxed his body down against Erik’s, but his hands remain tense on Erik’s shoulders, and his expression is shuttered and removed.

“When I _do_ stop running it,” he answers simply, rubbing a palm up the middle of Charles’ back and splaying his hand out wide between his shoulder blades. “I’m sure you’re excellent at many things, but tracking down Nazi criminals and assassinating them isn’t one of them, nor is keeping yourself alive in a situation where more than a few people would like you dead. For that reason, I would suggest you follow my lead.”

“I _could_ pluck the information out of your head,” Charles counters, but even as he says it, his lips twist and he grimaces, scrunching his nose in distaste. That right there is an answer, but, based on the evidence of the last few days, Charles will unfortunately go on denying it if it isn’t pushed in his face.

“You could,” he agrees, raising his free hand and using it to brush a loose lock of hair back off Charles’ forehead. “But I think you know very well that knowing something is not the same as doing it. My mind would teach you _how_ to protect yourself, but it wouldn’t give you the will and experience necessary to do what it takes to ensure your own safety. It’s the same reason military experience isn’t taught solely in a classroom: you can know all the information, but until you’ve been in a situation to apply it, there’s no telling how you’ll react.”

“Were you in the military?”

That’s… not exactly what Charles was meant to take away from that talk, but, fine, that’s a valid question. “Yes.”

“Which country?”

Nice of him to leave out the “since it wasn’t Germany” that most people would have added. “Israel. I was in the Mossad.”

“Oh.”

Yes, indeed. Nice to know that the Mossad’s reputation precedes it, even in somewhere as far away as England. “I probably ought to take another look at the severance package. If I die, you might be entitled to some sort of spousal support.” It’s said mostly in jest, but Charles doesn’t bite at the joke, but instead leans back a few inches and raises his eyebrows. Sighing, he drops his hand away from Charles’ face, resting it on his shoulder instead. “I need to track that contact down, Charles.”

It takes a moment, but Charles does finally offer a shaky nod. “When you say ‘contact’…?”

“He ought to be an ally, but it’s never wise to count on it.”

Though Charles looks as though he can’t imagine living a life in which one must continually be suspicious of all acquaintances, he does give another nod, which, though shakier than the first, is still acquiescent. For the time being, that’s the best that can be hoped for. 

“Go on, then: do you want to shower first?”

Whether or not he really does, Charles pounces on the opportunity and slips off Erik’s lap to head to the bathroom, where he will likely use all the hot water in a fit of vindictive pettiness. It would serve him right to find himself interrupted two minutes in, when he’s just beginning to soap up his hair, but time is pressing, and while showering together would theoretically be quicker, in practicality there’s very little chance that they would make it out of that bathroom in under half an hour. 

It works all right this way. He’s treated to an appealing view of Charles clad only in a towel, and while Charles, contradictory man that he is, glares at Erik when he catches him looking and scoots toward the wardrobe a little faster, the sight still requires that Erik take an extra few minutes in the shower to take care of the resulting erection.

And then there’s the problem of what Charles will wear. Upon finding that no cardigans have been packed in his suitcase, he spends a few minutes snarling about how being required to wear a suit makes him feel like a show dog, being put through its paces and paraded out in public. Nor is he amenable to recognizing the foolishness of wearing a cardigan while waltzing onto the property of a man who regularly kills people. Kindly old grandfathers are not taken seriously.

And whatever else that suit may accomplish, it _will_ ensure that Charles will be taken seriously. It had been about the only nicely fitted suit in his wardrobe, but he must have had occasion to look his age once in a while. Navy is a nice color on him too, and the cut shows off how broad his shoulders actually are, and, as an added bonus, the trousers don’t disguise the fact that he has an ass, and a particularly nice one at that.

By the time they head downstairs and, after stopping in the hotel shop to buy a pot of concealer to cover up Charles’ bond bite—a tricky affair, in which Erik makes the purchase and avoids eye contact—they head out into the street, it’s a little later than would have been ideal, but that may not be too much of a detriment: if memory serves, David is an early riser by necessity rather than preference, and with any luck the later hour will find him in a better mood. 

“Do you actually know where we’re going?” Charles asks after a few minutes.

“I know where to start,” he answers, snagging Charles’ hand as they move to cross a street. If anyone looks, they’ll simply see a young couple, going about their business. If anyone does stop them, he has a Russian passport, and while they’ll need to obtain Charles a better variety of passports, for now their marriage certificate will be sufficient, even if only for the purpose of stalling long enough to get out of sight. The best option is of course never to be noticed at all, but suspicion here runs high, and obscurity is never a guarantee—and less so, now that Charles is involved and is actively unable to blend in with the same ease of long practice that years of globetrotting will provide. 

“So, he doesn’t know you’re coming?” 

“This isn’t the kind of business where you call ahead.”

 Though he frowns, Charles refrains from commenting and hurries along amicably enough as they reach a metro stop. “Where are we going?”

 So many questions. He’ll need to be weaned off that habit: most things happen too quickly to allow time to explain, and if Charles needs his answers before his actions, he could very well end up dead. Still, it’s early yet, and he hasn’t had time to adjust: expecting him to understand the workings of a lifestyle to which he’s never been exposed is unrealistic and a little cruel.

“We’ll take the yellow line to Deák tér and change for the blue line.”

“But where—?”

“Charles. Trust me.”

There’s a short, loaded pause, and then, “Why should I?”

That’s a fair question. “Because I have a vested interest in keeping you safe.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have dragged me into this situation in the first place.”

True. In an ideal world, there would have been no necessity, but any world with Schmidt in it is by no means ideal—and ridding the world of that kind of scum is as much a priority as keeping Charles safe. If the two were mutually exclusive….

It’s somewhat disconcerting to realize that he actually has to consider what he’d do in that circumstance. For so many years, killing Schmidt has been his only goal. But now….

There’s the link between them, and that _does_ count for something—but it’s more than that. Charles is… unique. Under other circumstances, their relationship might have been organic, with nothing more than attraction and conversation sparking on either side. And then there’s the odd, unfamiliar pull of being responsible for a life worth maintaining. A world without Charles in it would not be a better world by any stretch of the imagination, and taking responsibility for a life that significant is a heady and terrifying prospect. It would force anyone to reconsider whether snuffing out a malignant presence might be worth sacrificing someone like Charles.

The answer isn’t clear. But, if it were—if it were allowed to be—it would still be far from an easy answer.

Whatever answer Charles derives from the lack of response, it doesn’t irritate him to the point of refusing to follow along—or, indeed, even to the point of yanking his hand out of Erik’s grip. In fact, by the time the little subway car pulls up to a stop in front of them, his fingers have relaxed and are resting more naturally within Erik’s own, and he goes along calmly when he’s tugged aboard.

The car is relatively crowded, but they find an open space near one of the poles. Nudging Charles closest to it, Erik wraps an arm around each side of his body and brackets him in, taking a hold of the pole in front of Charles just as the doors are sliding closed. 

These rides are never easy. The press of bodies and the smell of unwash is too much a reminder of a similar ride in the back of a train, where the end destination was far more deadly than a train station. And it may be—it’s better not to examine the thought too closely—that holding Charles close in a situation like this is second nature: Erik’s mother had curled around him too, and while they hadn’t been lucky enough to get a spot by the wall, between her and his father, they’d kept him safely fenced away for the duration of the ride, untouched by the swarm of bodies around them.

That hadn’t been possible once they’d reached Auschwitz.

“All right?” he asks, nudging Charles with the inside of is arm.

Charles exhales heavily. “I… I’m not looking, mind you, but I can’t help—you’re feeling _very_ loudly….”

Ah. And Charles is overhearing him. Unfortunate, since that’s not the sort of thing to which anyone deserves to be subjected. “I’ll be all right. Try to block it out. It’s not a pleasant memory.”

“I’d like to help,” Charles answers slowly, voice thin with hesitation that leaks into his movements and results in a somewhat jerky motion when he tries to tip his head back to get a better look at Erik’s face.

“You can’t rewrite history.”

“But I could…” He tilts his head to the side, and raises a hand, brushing his temple with the tips of his fingers. Though the offer to use his telepathy is a kind one, it’s the curve of his neck that registers most, and before Charles can make any further suggestions, Erik leans in and brushes his nose over the bond bite on Charles’ throat. This close, his scent is easily detectable, and one deep breath curls it into Erik’s lungs and settles his mind. While it isn’t a cure-all, it’s a milder version of Charles’ greater ability to ground Erik’s powers and navigate him through sensory overload.

“This is plenty,” he murmurs, tickling his nose against the ends of Charles’ hair.

Charles shivers, but rather than indicating that he finds the sensations unpleasant, he arches his neck further and buries his face against Erik’s shoulder. “People will notice,” he half-whines, but his lips are languid against the junction of Erik’s neck and shoulder, and he doesn’t sound overly worried.

Not the brightest plan, drawing attention to themselves. Given a reason, people possess the ability to remember the faces of strangers, even if more often than not, their descriptions are contradictory and fragmented. Witnesses are notoriously unreliable, no matter the country. 

“You’re right,” he admits, but in a fit of one last indulgence, he trails a kiss over the still-raw mark before pulling back. Parting contact is—damn it, harder than it ought to be. Charles doesn’t complain when he’s held a few degrees tighter than before, but that doesn’t mean that the need to tuck Charles more securely up against him isn’t unsettling.

By the time they reach their stop, Charles has relaxed against him and is soundlessly watching the different scenes whip by outside the window. Nothing about his posture suggests he knows he’s allowed himself to be corralled and comforted by his Sentinel’s proximity, but reality never did require recognition. 

“You’ve never been here, have you?” he asks as he guides Charles off the train and through the station toward the next stop. Pausing briefly, he gets out their tickets, clears them both, and then hurries Charles along into the station.

“No.” And he’s shameless about it too, taking in everything with scrutinizing eyes that at once manage to process the information with vicious efficiency while simultaneously appreciating the sights with a childlike enjoyment.

“It’s a nice city. If we have time, perhaps we could go to the baths. They’re thermal. Supposedly have healing properties.”

“Sounds nice.” 

It’s quickly becoming apparent that one of Charles’ more unique qualities is his ability to express interest in future or past events while being at once firmly entrenched in the moment he’s in. As it is, he’s seemingly taking in every face that hurries past him, devouring the details with a mind that—hard to say, exactly, but the level of Charles’ intellect is growing clearer with every hour spent together. Naïve he might be, but that doesn’t prevent him from processing information at a rate that most people could only dream of.

“We’ll see.”

The connecting train comes relatively quickly, and though Charles wrinkles his nose at the sight of a car with the Communist sickle and scythe boldly emblazoned on it, he again follows Erik willingly enough. This car is a little less crowded than the other, and while the bodies mill around them as they enter the car against the flow of exiting traffic, they’re able to find seats this time: there’s no actual reason for him to keep a hold on Charles’ hand, but something about the gesture is reassuring, and they stay that way throughout the ride, and even once they exit the train and head back out onto the busy street. 

“His name wasn’t in the phone book,” he tells Charles as they bob and weave throughout the streams of people. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Charles gaze is only half on him: the other half of it is scraping over the buildings and peering about at their surroundings. Oddly, though, his attention isn’t wandering, and there’s no sense that he’s not listening properly to what he’s being told. “Then where—“

“I _do_ know the address of someone who might know his location.”

More like knowing the address of someone who, back when Erik first made his acquaintance, didn’t have a lot to lose. That’s the trouble with climbing the political ladder: once you’re at the top, your past never has the decency to remain quietly at the bottom.

“This is—Lehnsherr, this is a political office.”

Haven’t they moved to first names yet? Charles hadn’t been calling him “Lehnsherr” last night. “Erik, if you would.”

Charles grinds his foot into the ground impatiently when they trudge to a stop in front of the admittedly impressive tan stone building. The Soviet logo is again splashed over the entrance, but that’s to be expected: with the uprising not so far in the past, the order of business appears to be branding everything in sight, lest the Hungarians forget exactly who rules them now.

“This is a government building,” Charles insists stubbornly, ignoring the request, and raking his gaze upward to the top of the building and then back down to its foundations. “We can’t simply waltz into a government building.”

“On that we’re agreed.”

On that, but not on much else. Charles regards the building with distaste, and with a hint of unease, and while he isn’t backing away from it, the way he’s locked his knees is an obvious tell: if not for his self-control, he’d be heading back the way he came.

“What’s wrong?” he asks Charles, tugging him a few inches closer. There’s no need, but the warm, solid weight of Charles bumping into his side is both satisfying and reassuring.

“I tend to always scan the surface thoughts that are present before I enter an unfamiliar building. And… there are some rather unpleasant ideas drifting about.” 

“It’s a government office in a Soviet country,” he says by way of answer, taking care to craft the words with sufficient kindness: they aren’t meant to reprimand, not when Charles is plenty justified in disliking what he’s hearing. “Believe me, we’re not here for the pleasant company.”

Charles snorts. “Well, thank god for _that_. They’d be awfully disagreeable over tea, I expect.”

“Terribly.” Smothering a grin, he heads the final few steps to the door of the building, and while Charles isn’t enthusiastic, he follows along, squinting when Erik opens the door, and peering warily into the darker inside of the building.

There’s nothing overly remarkable about the inside. Just a desk with a secretary, who isn’t bothering to hide the disdain she’s feeling for the paperwork in front of her. The upside is that she’s more than willing to take a moment to help them, if only to put aside the paperwork for a little longer. 

She asks after their business in Hungarian, but she understands an answer in Russian well enough—though Charles does not. He blinks several times and shifts his weight from foot to foot, giving away his discomfort with the prospect of a lack of understanding. As a telepath, he could pluck the ideas out of the woman’s head, but he must not be able to put together a proper translation of her words without drawing the meaning of each individual word out of her memory—something that would take far too much time. 

“She’s calling down a page to run a message for us,” he tells Charles once the woman has turned away and snatched up her phone, summoning the aforementioned page. “We’ll work on your Russian: it’s a useful language to know.”

“I wouldn’t object. My French is excellent, my Spanish is average, I know Latin, and I’m decent with German, but I’m afraid Russian has passed me by thus far.”

“If you’d like, you could… listen in, and I’ll translate the ideas for you.”

Charles visibly draws back, both brows shooting for his hairline. “I thought you didn’t want me to, you know…” He cocks his head, shrugging and nodding vaguely toward Erik’s face. 

“It’s fine. The surface is fine.” It would streamline things, having Charles understand his intentions as they occur. But deeper—there are things there that are private, and for good reason: for Charles’ own well-being, he shouldn’t be allowed to go snooping, as subjecting Charles to the sort of carnage that Schmidt inflicted would not only be cruel, but also unnecessary.

Though he doesn’t appear sure of the honesty of the invitation, Charles does— _oh_. How… odd. It’s only a soft brush at first, just a hint of a presence at the edge of Erik’s thoughts, like a hand resting on the door before deciding to knock. When no resistance meets him, Charles slips further in, ghosting his mental touch over current perceptions and ideas. The feeling isn’t altogether unpleasant, but actually… soothing, in an odd way: like being intimately understood.

“It’s hard to misunderstand you like this, unless you misunderstand yourself,” Charles says with a small smile. The feeling must also be pleasing for Charles, who relaxes visibly, allowing his shoulders to sink down more naturally, rather than holding them as stiffly as he’d somehow been doing.

This time it’s Erik’s turn to shrug. “I find that people too often do exactly that.”

Let it never be said that Charles lacks a response—though, in this case he’s cut off by the arrival of a pageboy, who enters the room via a staircase on the far side. The woman, who had gone back to her paperwork after hanging up the phone, gestures toward them before dismissing the boy’s presence from her immediate list of things to be handled.

The boy understands Russian well enough too, and produces a pen and paper when asked. Charles, hovering at the edge of Erik’s mind—and probably within the boy’s consciousness too—latches onto the meaning, and eagerly snatches up the English equivalent words when Erik forms them in his mind. 

Folding the paper, Erik scrawls down a name on the front of it. The boy nods when shown, and, after being handed the paper, disappears back up the stairs.

_[What was in the note?]_

Now _that_ is strange. Everything about Charles is retained in his mental voice: it _sounds_ like him—a mental projection of his voice—and somehow it feels like him too, in the strange sense of a mental imprint of a physical view. 

_[His brother-in-law’s name]_ he pushes toward Charles. Is that how it’s done? Just… thinking it? Or thinking it with a direction?

And Charles: if this is how he reacts when a student achieves a correct answer, he must be a decent teacher. That pleased smile could be damnably addictive. _[Just his name?]_

_[And a request for the man to speak with us.]_

Charles sends a pulse of understanding and surveys the stairs with a level gaze, eventually sliding his eyes over to flicker briefly on the secretary. She’s taking no notice of them: she’s no doubt used to having all manner of strange guests in her space on a daily basis, and two well-dressed men who make very little fuss are not likely to catch her attention. Perhaps if they hadn’t entered while holding hands, she might have displayed a hint more interest for personal reasons, but as it stands, she’s written them off and gone back to her paperwork, only occasionally pausing to pluck the ringing phone up off its stand and to answer the line with a stream of quick words that vary between Hungarian and Russian, probably depending on the recipient’s preference.

By the time the pageboy has returned, Charles has moved from considering the office to consider the minds of those around him. There’s no physical tell to give him away, but every so often there’s a spark of interest that pings in Erik’s mind as well, presumably when Charles finds something interesting. Perhaps more importantly, it also seems to support the idea that Charles doesn’t simply _overhear_ thoughts: he appears to only pick up them when he’s actively allowing them into his own mind. That might be due to his own practice in building up blocks—he’d surely go mad if the whole surrounding area were always battering at his mind—or it may be his natural state, but it will merit further conversation once they’re again in private. Understanding the limits of Charles’ gift is a detail that could serve to save both their lives under the right circumstances.

“He’ll see you,” the boy tells them in efficient, uninflected Russian.

 _[There’s curiosity in the boy’s mind about it,]_ Charles thinks, with a vague wariness. Charming, almost: he hasn’t quite yet learned what to be wary _of_ , recognizing only that there’s an innate danger. It’s… almost sweet, that degree of naivety. _[I don’t know what the man said to him, but he wasn’t pleased. There’s an image of the man paling, and he was—oh dear, he was rather short with the boy, I’m afraid. Really quite a rude chap.]_

_[I’m not surprised.]_

When the boy beckons for them to follow, Charles hesitates, and only moves at the behest of a firm hand on the small of his back. Even then he’s wary, wrinkling his nose and staring with such concentration at the back of the boy’s head that it’s a wonder he doesn’t set it on fire with his gaze. _[Are you sure this is the best idea? The man—that is to say, the pageboy has a general feeling toward him, some sort of dislike and mingled respect for his power. I wouldn’t say he’s a nice man.]_

_[Very few of the men I deal with are.]_

All the same, even if Charles can’t understand the language, what he’s doing has the chance to prove invaluable. To be able to scout ahead on people’s intentions and emotional perceptions—it probably would have prevented more than a few shoot-outs over the years.

And Charles _is_ right. As soon as the boy shows them into a meticulously kept—if rather sterile and blandly Soviet—office, the waiting man’s appearance leaves no question: he’s none too enthused with their arrival. He’s a ruddy man to begin with, but his face is flushed a truly unpleasant color, made worse in contrast to his dark brown hair. His blue eyes sit deeply in his head, and he stares at them over the bridge of a slightly off-center nose. A break in his childhood, maybe.

In some cases, it pays to approach the issue in a round-about fashion, but the note send ahead will have dispelled any uncertainty surrounding their visit. More to the point, it will have hinted at blackmail: perhaps before the 1956 uprising it might have been acceptable to have a sister who married a Jew, but the current climate, while not anti-Semitic in the way it was during the war, is not friendly to Jews in positions of power.

“Your brother-in-law is an old friend of mine,” he tells the man once the pageboy has ducked out of the room and shut the door behind him. “Henrik Sárkány.”

The man has very obviously not gestured in invitation to the chair in front of him. Nice of him to set up an opportunity for a power-play, and over such a petty detail too. “Have a seat,” he says warmly to Charles, taking hold of his elbow and more or less dropping him back into the chair. Charles catches himself and settles with poise, but there’s a spark of anger that lights up between both their minds. _[I’m not insulting you]_ he sends, and Charles had really ought to count himself lucky that trying to roll one’s eyes is out of the question when faced with a third party not privy to the reason. The dynamics of this situation shouldn’t be a difficult puzzle to solve, and yet Charles is too eager to find insult—eager enough to overlook what would ordinarily be well within his powers of reasoning. _[I don’t want you as the focus of his attention, and treating you like a pointless lover I dragged along is the quickest way to have you dismissed.]_

 _[Excuse_ you _: I’m not about to pretend to be your brainless husband.]_

Meaning what? That Charles is seconds away from pushing himself back up out of the chair and finding some way to assert himself? That’s altogether too likely.

 _[I am trying to keep you_ safe. _I’m not pandering to your pride at the cost of your safety. Fuck your dignity.]_

Charles shifts in the chair, propping one arm on the armrest and regally dandling his hand off the front, surveying the man at the desk with an ease of confidence that tends to accompany old money. At least he has the manners to play this game, though he’s being a brat about how he’s using them.

It’s some small consolation that Charles presumably decides that now is not the time for this conversation. There’s no affirming mental reassurance that he’ll behave, but so long as he’s only sitting there acting as though he’s due respect, that’s tolerable. It would be better if he’d consent to playing the empty-headed, pretty husband, but there will be time enough to fight about that later.

For now, there isn’t time to worry incessantly about Charles: the man behind the desk is what they’re here for, and without the information he can give, this trip will have been pointless.

“Mr. Rajk.”

The man blinks his piggy blue eyes and flattens his hands down on the solid mahogany desk. “I do not keep contact with my brother-in-law,” he answers sharply, leaning his head back and jutting his chin out. “I cannot help you.”

“Oh, I’m certain you don’t.” Not officially. But a brother-in-law who’s a known trafficker of information? He undoubtedly _does_ , though out of the public eye, lest he be accused of sordid connections. “But I only need to know his address.”

The man’s face hardens, and his mouth trembles. After this long playing this game, it isn’t difficult to read the face of a man who has been insulted, and who is about to attempt a rebuff.

It’s even less difficult to head him off.

“Of course, if you can’t help me, I can always ask around. I’m sure that if I mention he’s your brother-in-law, someone will know his whereabouts.”

And… perfect. This one is almost too easy. Almost like the universe’s little gift to make up for the hassle that is talking Charles through this. And translating for him—that’s cumbersome, but in a strange way, it’s also useful, like an immediate feedback link by which to examine his own words. 

“No. No need to ask.” 

This is what separates the higher-level government cogs from the middle of the pack lackeys, like this man: a man of real authority would have responded with threats, but this man has nothing with which to threaten. No one’s at his disposal, beyond a handful of criminals and the office staff.

Granted, this sort of man also tends to try to put out anonymous hits later, but the assassins are never highly skilled professionals: only the sort of killers that can be found for cheap on the streets. That unfortunately doesn’t prevent them from being problems, which is why, despite Charles’ objections, it’s better to keep things like a hotel address and a name close to the chest. 

_[He’s thinking of how to kill you.]_

Not surprising, but nice of Charles to worry. _[Oh?]_

_[He’s picturing you bleeding out on the floor.]_

This might prove to be interesting: it’s one thing to know that someone wants you dead, but it’s quite another to have insight into precisely how they picture it occurring. In a way, it’s almost… amusing.

There’s also the matter of how concerned Charles sounds. Disgusted too, but that’s to be expected, given his aversion to violence. With a life spent reading the minds of men, he’ll have encountered all matter of perverse desire, but there’s little chance that he’s been exposed to the kind of men he’ll meet during this hunt for Schmidt.

 _[I tend to find that’s a common pattern with the men I meet,]_ he admits, and—it’s impulsive, but laying a hand down on Charles’ shoulder feels right, both in intention and in deed. This close, there’s no danger that Charles will meet with harm without Erik knowing, but the comfort of pressing fingertips down into flesh and bone can’t be replicated with mere logic. _[Though, I do appreciate the warning. But you don’t need to worry.]_

_[This man—he’s a murderer. He’s thinking of—shit, I think he’s thinking of other people he’s had killed.]  
_

The shoulder under his hand trembles. It isn’t fear—Charles would wear that in his whole manner if that were the case—but rather disgust, which Charles can’t quite stifle down out of his muscles.

_[He’s not high enough up the food chain to have good resources, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a few criminals at his beck and call.]_

“Then I _won’t_ ask,” he replies to the man’s statement, flashing a thin smile in his direction. The flush on the man’s cheeks deepens, spreading down through the skin of his neck. “Since you’re so willing to tell me.”

Eager is about as far from the truth as it’s possible to be: the man recoils slowly, dragging his hands slug-slow back across the desk and leaving a smear of sweat in the wake of each palm. “Henrik’s address,” he murmurs as his hands reemerge from behind his desk, holding pen and paper. Without looking up, he scrawls down a few words. “Here.”

He hands the paper over by proffering it between pointer and middle finger; he stretches his body across the desk, though with as little enthusiasm as possible, and certainly with an air of someone facing a creature both disgusting and poisonous.

It’s a pleasure to pluck the note out of the man’s fingers. “My thanks.” And because being pleasant now costs nothing, there’s an odd sort of pleasure in inclining his head toward the man. “I always find it’s so much easier, getting information like this from an obliging relative. It always tends to be more accurate—much less chance that the information will prove to be misleading. And I do hate having to resort to asking others when that happens.”

The man’s face twitches, but he doesn’t crack. Presumably, then, the information is good. Excellent. “We’re off, then,” he says, switching back to English—more a signal for Charles than anything else.

Hooking a hand down under Charles’ arm, he assists him in standing—not because Charles needs the help, but more… more for indulgence. The pleasure of touching Charles, and also for the sake of keeping up appearances: if Charles appears nothing more than a pretty plaything, meant to be led about, there’s no chance of men like this seeing him as anything more substantial.

Too bad Charles is not shaping up to see reason on that point.

The moment they’re out of the office, he shakes Erik’s arm off and targets him with a searing glare. Warnings of assassination intentions do not, it would appear, equate to actual good will.

“I won’t let you do that again,” he says, brushing by Erik and preceding him down the stairs. “You think you’re untouchable—and I’ll hand it to you, you’re very good at what you do, so far as I can tell. But you’re shit at having someone else along for the ride. _That_ man might not remember me, Erik, but that’s because he doesn’t understand the game you’re playing.”

“Most people don’t. And even those that do are prone to dismissing someone who’s young, pretty, and has eyes like yours.”

“Charming,” Charles mutters dryly, taking the steps two at a time. “And only mostly true. I’m a telepath. I _know_ how people _think._ You only _guess_. Most of the time you’re probably right, but in those few times when you aren’t? Listening to me could save your life. Instead, I think you’re more inclined to view me the same way as the people you seek to fool. You believe you’re different, but you dismiss me just the same as they do, because the best part of me that you’ve seen so far is my ass. You don’t _want_ to see anything else.”

Nice to know that Charles will never be shy of sharing his opinion. And—it shouldn’t be oddly appealing, hearing him snap. But it really is. Refreshing, almost, and crisp, like a new source to be tracked down: it just keeps a person _guessing_.

Granted, that doesn’t stop it from also being infuriating as hell.

Having gained the ground floor, Charles heads off for the door, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders back, head held high. He leads them off with every indication of owning the operation, and—to hell with not being noticed, since the change of dynamic—Charles’ temper tantrum—catches the eye of the secretary on the way out. She doesn’t linger with her assessment, but she blinks when she sees Charles, and just those few seconds could cement him in her mind. 

“Was that really necessary?” he asks once he’s caught up with Charles and gotten a grip on his elbow. Too bad the street outside of a government building isn’t exactly the ideal place for this conversation.

Not that Charles seems to give much of a damn. “Fucking show me some _respect_ ,” he seethes, wrenching his arm away with too much force and staggering sideways.

“Be _careful!_ ” Too close to the oncoming traffic, and one car even swerves a tiny amount. If he hadn’t caught Charles again by the elbow, Charles could have gone tumbling into traffic. What is he _thinking_?

But Charles throws him off again, this time with more coordination. “I’ll play a role for you,” he hisses, flicking his gaze toward any pedestrians within hearing range. They’ll probably remember nothing at all of this fight: Charles pays them too much attention to suppose that their minds remain unaltered. “These meetings, if that’s what you need me to do, fine. But you’ll discuss it with me beforehand. You will _not_ treat me like an accessory on your arm because you think it’s your _right_.”

“What then?” he bites back, trying to get his body between Charles and the street, lest the little fool try to walk into traffic again. “You want to help me with this? I was under the impression that you’d rather examine the world with rose-tinted glasses and hide behind the wall of your own naivety.”

“Because I’m not a fucking _murderer_?”

“Call it what you like: these men need to die.”

“And _you_ need to kill them,” Charles answers flatly, but at least he isn’t on the verge of either hitting Erik or being hit by a car. The rage has abruptly drained from his face, and he’s left with a disgusted, weary resignation that’s already ducked out of reach emotionally far before he physically turns his back on Erik and heads off down the street again. He can’t know where he’s going, but that doesn’t appear to concern him.

“I’m not asking you to kill anyone,” he says as he draws even with Charles’ shoulder, trying to head him off and brush him sideways where the wall of a building will cut him off. A little further and there’s a side street with no cars turning down it: probably not a busy stretch. “You were useful to me back there. Or you would have been: if I hadn’t known he wanted to kill me, it would have given me a distinct advantage, having you tell me.”

It feels like proffering an olive branch, but it may be that he’s simply inept at it, because Charles merely regards him scornfully and ducks his shoulder again, trying to press past him. But as hard as he tries, one good nudge derails him, and his shoulder clips the edge of the oncoming building, knocking him back around to face the side street, and from there a light shove to the small of his back pushes him out of the main street and onto a mostly-deserted street, lined only with parked cars. 

“We need to meet with Henrik,” he reminds Charles.

Charles snaps his head away and drives the toe of his shoe down into the concrete, scowling. “Then go. But, as you so eagerly pointed out earlier, dear _husband_ , whichever of us wants to stay put has the advantage. I wouldn’t even need to use my telepathy: you can’t just walk off and leave me. You can’t even go take a piss without me in sight. And unlike when you drugged me in Oxford, we’re in public: you can’t sling me over your shoulder and carry me out of this alley.” 

He’s right. He’s damnably, infuriatingly right. “ _Charles_. I’m not confident of my welcome with Henrik: if his brother-in-law calls ahead and gives him warning, every second wasted here is a second he can use to set himself up to an advantage.”

“That’s no affair of mine.”

“Hoping I’ll die, then?”

“It would make my life significantly easier,” he answers, but his tone drops and thins, and he’s making such an effort not to look at Erik that it almost becomes painful. Anger or not, Charles Xavier is no good at such deliberate cruelty.

More than that, though, it’s sad. It must be the eyes: he looks too much like a kicked puppy, tired and emotionally worn out. It shouldn’t matter. It’s never mattered with anyone else _before_ —not since the camps—but having a responsibility—having a _person—_ it doesn’t make sense, and it’s the dead opposite of strategic, but before he can think much on it, he brushes a hand against Charles’ shoulder blade and, when he’s not shaken off, slides closer, getting a hold around the opposite side of Charles’ waist as well.

“I don’t want to drag you into this,” he admits quietly. Charles doesn’t turn toward him, and he’s still stiff, but he’s making no secret of the fact that he’s listening. “Once the link settles, I won’t take you along at all. Until then, the best I can do is to hide you in plain sight—and I did that here in the most effective way I know how.”

A tiny amount of tension eases in Charles’ shoulders. “I told you I’ll play a role. But you keep me _informed_. You tell me _why_ , and you don’t just assume that I ought to do as you say.” 

Which shows precisely how little training Charles has had in any organization that engages in violence: you don’t stop to ask questions from a commanding officer. You don’t have to like your superior, and maybe in the time between bouts of combat you even eliminate him or her, but you don’t question in the middle of things. Hesitation like that can get everyone killed.

But… Charles is—whatever he is, he’s—he’s really more like a civilian, a charge assigned to a bodyguard, something to be protected. And he doesn’t understand. If they can reach the point where they can spend hours apart, Charles can return to his research and steer clear altogether of these excursions, and he won’t _need_ to understand. This doesn’t have to be a problem three months from now, and for the time being, Charles is probably—fine, _is_ —he _is_ due the amount of respect that he’s demanding. It isn’t convenient, but if they’re going to have any hope of existing mutually after this period of forced proximity passes, it’s probably best to give Charles what he is due rather than more effectively guaranteeing his safety at the cost of his grudging cooperation.

“All right.”

Charles blinks. “What?”

Is acquiescence really so startling? What did Charles expect: a brawl? “I’ll do my best to explain what I need from you—and _why_ I need it—before we enter a situation.”

“I—“ He blinks again. “Yes. Thank you.” But the reality of it doesn’t appear to have sunk in far enough yet to leech the tension of out Charles’ muscles; while he doesn’t try to pull away, he’s coiled tight and on the brink of bolting. 

That changes in a rush of breath: exhaling heavily, Charles deflates, settling down into the touch. Too bad there’s no peace in the action, but only a deep weariness that smacks more of acceptance at a small victory than satisfaction with the situation as a whole.

It shouldn’t matter. Charles happiness must always come second to his safety—and when did his happiness begin to matter in the first place? This isn’t safe, caring like this. Safety is found in objectivity and emotional distance. 

And, yet… there’s an unrelenting tug of frustration at watching Charles sink deeper into his discontent.

“We _do_ need to go,” he tells Charles slowly, sneaking a hand under the jacket of his suit coat and rubbing a thumb over the thinner fabric of his button-up. “Are you ready to leave?”

Charles still won’t look him straight in the eye, but he does muster a side-eyed glance and a curt nod. He takes a step back, brushing himself up against the wall, but tugging up short at the insistence of a hand on his belt.

“I can tell that you’re still upset, you know.”

Charles doesn’t turn around, remaining faced toward the street. “You really _don’t_ know anything about me,” he answers coldly, shifting his hips and tugging lightly against the hold on his belt. 

That’s a fair judgment. He may know the noises Charles makes in bed, where he likes to be touched, what he does for work, how he looks when he’s angry—but the littler things that truly make Charles _Charles—_ those are a mystery. “I know. But that goes both ways, Charles.”

This time, Charles accompanies his words with a sharp glare. “I could know _everything_ about you, if I wanted.” Though why that reality should pinch his face with an odd kind of pain is anyone’s guess. Another of those things about Charles that he probably will need to know, but which he doesn’t yet.

“What’s stopping you?”

But Charles doesn’t answer: he only turns away and begins walking, overbalancing Erik until he stumbles forward, still clutching Charles’ belt. Past experience has been all too clear on what happens if he doesn’t have a solid grip on Charles. At least like this, he can’t take off running.

“You don’t know where we’re going,” he reminds Charles again as they emerge back out onto the street. “ _Charles_.”

And, finally, Charles turns back to look at him with actual consideration. It’s only half a victory when there’s no question that Charles has very little inclination for good-natured rationality at the moment, but—it feels like progress, more so when Charles allows him to gently reach up and frame his hands to Charles’ face.

“I’m sorry, all right?” he murmurs. “This isn’t easy. But I’m trying. I’m willing to _keep_ trying.”

For a moment, there’s no reaction. But then, slowly, Charles’ eyes flutter closed, and, inch by inch, he leans the weight of his head into the hands holding him. When he isn’t dropped, he relaxes further, and finally gives in that final inch and allows himself to properly be held.

“All right,” he agrees, accepting a tentative kiss against his temple.


	7. Chapter 7

Erik Lehnsherr is potentially the most contradictory creature on the planet. His arrogance is stunning, and it would probably be insurmountable if not for the lingering sense that much of that arrogance comes from a genuine lack of any emotional skill. His mind—even just the surface—is exactingly precise, and so utterly task-oriented that the inclination for anything as superfluous as emotion has been nearly strangled out.

Nearly.

Lehnsherr has been clear: surface thoughts only. But even those surface thoughts are so often riddled with pain and anger, and, on occasion, a strange goodness. Usually, it’s an offshoot of a thirst for justice, but it’s becoming quickly apparent that Lehnsherr is not a cruel man, regardless of whether or not his actions are, at times, exactly that. He doesn’t enjoy pain for pain’s sake, but only as a tool of retribution for those he believes deserve to suffer.

But, that aside, he’s hardly on the path to torturing small animals—or his husband.

Lehnsherr isn’t inclined to harm him. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s a strangely sobering thought. If anything, Lehnsherr is—if the occasional pulse of his surface thoughts are indicative of his deeper feelings—quickly developing a remarkably protective set of intentions of which he himself may not be entirely aware.

No wonder about that: anything… gentler that kicks about in his mind is buried firmly beneath the ever-present pulse of his obsession with Schmidt.

And woe to anyone who stands in the way of his hunt.

“It would be unwise to lie to me. I’m well aware that Henrik is home. Now, if you would tell him that an old friend is here to see him.”

In accordance with his earlier words, Lehnsherr had explained the intended flow of this visit beforehand, as well as both their roles in it. Henrik, it would seem, is not the sort of man who can be expected to disregard a man on the basis of his looks; and Lehnsherr is not asking for a repeat of the earlier office visit. Colleagues this time, he’d said. Sleeping together, but unattached. Don’t speak. Let me do the talking for you. As far as Henrik is concerned, you are a well-off Englishman who has been wronged by Schmidt, but who lacks both the skills and the connections to hunt him down yourself. Henrik will assume that your money explains your presence.

Easy enough. It’s not so far from the truth, with the exception of a personal vendetta against Schmidt.

At this stage, it’s also unnecessary: the woman in the doorway—probably in her thirties, pretty, relatively well-off—is completely absorbed in trying to turn Lehnsherr away.

It’s going about as well as can be expected. That is: horribly.

As she argues with Lehnsherr in a stream of Hungarian, Russian, and occasionally English, her face turns redder and redder, until she finally throws up her hands and forgoes talking completely, choosing instead to try slamming the door in his face. Unfortunately for her, the doorknob is metal, and while the door won’t budge under her grip, her attempts send a snap of frustration across the surface of Erik’s mind, and he gives up trying to reason in favor of brushing by her into the room. His only saving grace is that, despite resistance in the form of clawing hands and desperate attempts to grab hold of his jacket, he’s relatively gentle with her, merely waving his hand and affixing a loop of metal around her wrist, which he then melds to the doorknob.

“Was that really necessary?” he hisses toward Lehnsherr, jogging after him into the house. The woman takes a swing at him too, but he easily dodges, hurrying after Lehnsherr and snagging his elbow, more to slow him down than to stop him entirely—not that Erik would have gotten far. The house is only one of many on the street, and, in accordance with the general layout of such townhouses, the entryway is quickly split, with a staircase going up and a hallway leading toward the back. There’s a living room off the hallway, but Lehnsherr doesn’t indicate that’s where he’s headed.

“I didn’t hurt her,” Lehnsherr answers, as if that explains everything. The question does appear to remind him that he’s not the only one present, however, and he reaches out and—oh, for godsake—snatches up Charles’ hand. He can’t possibly have noticed how often he does that, nor how irritating it is to be led about like a small child.

And, worst of all: it’s bloody well comforting, having Lehnsherr in such easy reach.

Whatever else Erik might have added in his own defense is cut off when a man rounds the top of the stairs. “Anna?“ A few clipped syllables in Hungarian follow, presumably a question for Anna, but he breaks off when he catches sight of his guests.

Ah. Well. He _does_ know Erik—and presumably well enough that, when he sees him, he stops cold and grips the banister of the staircase for support, physically reeling with surprise—though that’s nothing compared to his mental backlash, which kicks up to a level that is halfway between panic and ruthless control. An odd dichotomy, that. “Erik Lehnsherr.”

Lehnsherr merely inclines his head. “Henrik.”

But Henrik is already looking beyond him, eyes alighting on the woman. “Anna?” The panic in his mind simmers down to a buzzing concern when he finds her unharmed.

She lets off another stream of angry words in mixed languages, but there’s no missing her absolute disdain for Erik. And it’s certainly no act—her mind is aflame with rage and wounded dignity, and there’s a violent urge to do Erik physical harm. Though, the urge is nebulous and lacking clarity, and mostly likely if she did have the opportunity, her actions would be limited to slapping and pushing: there’s nothing in her mind to indicate that she’s ever done more, or that, at this stage, she would be likely to do so.

“My apologies,” Lehnsherr tells him stiffly when Henrik’s gaze turns back toward him, openly written with anger and shock. “It was imperative that I speak with you, and she was… very reluctant to bring you a message.”

“Anna,” Henrik says sharply, shaking his head and speaking quickly to her in Russian.

_[What’s he saying?]_

Erik squeezes his hand. _[Telling her to stop. He knows me well enough that he’s sure I won’t hurt her if she doesn’t give me a reason.]_

_[You hurt women now?]_

_[Only in the event that they try to do me serious harm. This woman’s slapping hardly qualifies. As irritating as her tittering is, I wouldn’t presume to kill her for it.]_

“Well?” Lehnsherr prompts, staring up the staircase toward Henrik. “We can have this conversation in the hallway if you’d like, but—“

“No.” Henrik jerks his head upward, indicating that they ought to join him at the top of the staircase. “In my office.”

Yes, and as far as he can get them from his wife, which, admirably, is his goal, first and foremost. Lehnsherr is proving himself very adept at using other people’s attachments to get what he wants, but—there’s a nagging sense of fear that comes with watching it. Lehnsherr is not the only capable man in the world, and there are surely those out there who might use Lehnsherr’s attachments against _him_.

Put in that light, Lehnsherr’s hand feels far too much like a red flag.

“It’s been a long time, Henrik,” Lehnsherr says as he marches up the stairs, leading Charles along behind him.

“And a pity it wasn’t longer, given your entrance,” Henrik mutters, sweeping a few pieces of dark hair off his face and combing them back into a semblance of order—though his panic at Erik’s actions has pretty well shattered that order. Lucky for him, he has the face for it: soft enough to absorb and hide his panic; handsome, but decidedly lacking the harder angles of a man like Erik. Not a bad thing: Raven has more than once told him that he himself has a baby-face, and while he may never have Lehnsherr’s chiseled good-looks, men like he and Henrik must have a certain sort of appeal—it’s not as though women have ever complained.

Lehnsherr scoffs and clears the top of the stairs. “There wouldn’t have been a need if you weren’t so damn hard to find.”

“I’d given you a mailing address: if you’d written, I’d have agreed to meet you.” Not that he’s giving an indication of that willingness _now_ : though he holds the door to the office open for them, the look in his eyes wouldn’t be out of place if it were his duty to fit Erik for a coffin.

But Lehnsherr, is, as always, unperturbed. His mind doesn’t declare any belief that he’s untouchable, but he fakes it with an astounding degree of skill. Right down to the way he walks, he’s self-possessed, swaggering over to a chair that’s planted in front of Henrik’s desk. He pinches his features when he sees it, scanning the room for—oh, for another.

_[It’s fine. We’ll both stand.]_

It’s still surprising, how quickly Lehnsherr has acclimated to having thoughts spoken directly into his brain: he hardly reacts, except to nod and turn them both, leaning back against the lip of the desk. Two steps, and he’s taken the room, turned it to his advantage, and left its actual owner standing anchorless by the door. 

If Henrik were a little less clever—or a little less used to this game, and possibly Lehnsherr’s own special brand of assholery—he might have floundered and lost the conversation altogether. One can’t help but admire his resolve and how he calmly shuts the door, marching into the room and past the desk before perching himself in the chair behind it. 

Lehnsherr, lest he turn his back on anyone, is forced to concede and pivot back around. _[Sit in the chair, please]_ he thinks, icy calm in his thoughts. _[Otherwise we’ll both be left awkwardly standing, and off-balance is the last thing I want to be right now.]_

How very exhausting it must be to spend every minute of every day, always scrambling for the upper hand. But… there’s no reason to derail this, when it would only lead to bigger problems. And Lehnsherr _did_ scrape out a hint of politeness this time around. Baby steps, then. Too bad the honeymoon ended before it started and deteriorated so quickly into the portion of marriage that involves compromise and bargaining.

He sits, settling himself on the edge of the chair, watching as Lehnsherr slides to the side, perching his hip on the edge of the desk and regarding Henrik with a silky—and terrifying—smile. “This is Frank Eisenhardt,” he informs Henrik without waiting for permission to continue.

Frank. Easy to remember, Lehnsherr had argued, since it has base in reality—and it would hardly do to actually _use_ Francis. As for Eisenhardt… Erik had merely stared at him when he’d asked the origin of that, and had tossed out an unsatisfactory line about it being a common German name and had left it at that. It hadn’t, in the scheme of things, been worth fighting over, though curiosity does rankle. 

“He shares my… _interest_ in finding certain individuals. I can assure you he’s trustworthy.”

Not that Henrik seems overly worried about that. Evidently, if Lehnsherr has cleared a person, he trusts enough in Lehnsherr’s paranoia to let matters lie there.

“And _I_ can assure you,” Henrik snaps, “that I don’t appreciate being disturbed in my own house. You had an address. Why didn’t you _use_ it?” 

“The address you gave me was compromised,” Erik counters, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. “But you know that.”

Henrik slaps his palm down onto the desk. “You don’t know shit, Lehnsherr. That address is perfectly secure. If you wanted a reason to take me by surprise—“

But Lehnsherr cuts him across easily. “There were enough eyes on that drop point to out-do most government surveillance.”

“ _My_ eyes,” he hisses back, pressing so close to the edge of his chair that he’s nearly standing. One more provoking statement, and he’ll probably come right up.

“I don’t really give a damn,” Lehnsherr answers, shrugging. “Maybe your people are loyal. Maybe they aren’t. I’m not taking the chance.”

“Because you’re a paranoid bastard—“

“Thank you.”

“—who has his head so far up his ass—“

Apparently that’s the limit: paranoid may be seen as a compliment, but anything further has tried Lehnsherr’s temper. But _this_ —is it really necessary to call a few bobs of metal to hand? They rotate lazily over his outstretched palm, and Lehnsherr still hasn’t bothered to stand up straight, but the implication couldn’t be clearer.

“Still at that, are you?” Henrik asks, though his voice is much dryer than before, and his green eyes are fixed on the metal. “You really _must_ trust your… colleague.”

He surely appears the greatest fool imaginable, sitting here quietly while Lehnsherr threatens a man. Composure, while it’s holding, can’t possibly be complete: his face must have drained to sheet white, and that won’t be helpful, but this level of casual violence—it’s startling. Lehnsherr wears it like a second skin. He didn’t—at no point—Lehnsherr hasn’t done this to _him_ yet, and, yes, he’s still a right bastard, but this is different. This is cold and calculated. It’s like staring anger directly in the face.

_[Lehnsherr, what are you doing?]_

“We’ve had this conversation before, Henrik,” Lehnsherr says coolly, staring down at the metal in his own hand. “By all means, go to the police. But they won’t find me, and, when they fail to, I’ll find _you_.”

Henrik’s face flushes. “Fuck you.”

Lehnsherr only hums in response and flashes a look back at—oh, honestly? Agreeing to play a role is one thing, but Lehnsherr hardly needs to flaunt it. Henrik didn’t need an open declaration to know that “Frank Eisenhardt” is not simply Lehnsherr’s “colleague.”

Oddly, though, the action puts Henrik on a more even footing, and he draws back, chuckling deprecatingly, low enough that it rattles his throat and does a bit to mask the flush in his cheeks as amusement, rather than anger. “Trust is always a matter of perspective, isn’t it?”

As far as innuendos go, that’s surprisingly classy. Meeting Henrik’s eye doesn’t do much to pretend that the hint was missed, but it’s better than letting Lehnsherr fight _all_ the battles—especially when his personal brand of combat is proving to be worryingly messy.

“I’d say so,” Lehnsherr agrees, finally tipping his head back toward Henrik. “Mutually assured gain is usually an excellent foundation on which to build. It’s even worked for _us_ in the past.”

“You wouldn’t get far on the basis of just your charming personality,” Henrik mutters, but he relaxes to the point where he can once again lean back in his seat without giving the impression that he’s on the brink of lunging over the desk to try to strangle Lehnsherr.

Lehnsherr must be keen on actually developing some sort of progress: it’s difficult to imagine he’d let that pass otherwise. But, as it is, he merely smirks and picks a mostly-invisible piece of debris off his suit. “Are you interested or not, Henrik?”

Henrik sighs. “I wouldn’t cry if you turned up in a ditch somewhere, Lehnsherr, but your information usually _is_ good, and you get the job done.” 

_[I thought you said he was something resembling a_ friend? _]_

 _[_ You _probably wouldn’t cry either if I turned up in a ditch.]_

What the hell is that supposed to mean? After knowing Lehnsherr for a handful of days, love hasn’t exactly been fostered eternal, but that doesn’t mean… fuck, the idea of Lehnsherr dead isn’t _pleasant_. _[It’s not an active desire of mine. Can you say the same for this man?]_

_[I don’t need to: I only need to be sure that his other desires outweigh his dislike. And, hard as it is to believe, we’ve worked rather well together in the past. Gone out for drinks, even.]_

_[Then why did you try to piss him off?]_ It’s as though Lehnsherr can’t conceive of holding anyone’s good will on a more than temporary basis: he destroys it before they—in his mind inevitably—have the chance to turn on him.

_[Wasn’t trying. If his wife had cooperated, this would have gone smoothly.]_

_[You didn’t exactly make an effort to interact civilly with her.]  
_

Claiming otherwise may be too great a stretch even for Lehnsherr, who drops the mental thread, pulling himself up off the desk and strolling to the edge of the room where he halts in front of a painting, eyeing it with a casual regard. “I’m looking for someone, Henrik.”

Henrik’s eyes track him across the room, twitching between Lehnsherr and the painting. Interesting. Stolen, maybe? Expensive?

_[Does the painting matter?]_

_[We ran an art heist together. Set up a man to take the fall for it. When the police took him in for questioning, we raided his house and cleaned out anything of value. Henrik found this painting and took a liking to it. But there’s no real meaning to it besides that.]_

_[You framed—?]_

_[An ex-Nazi. I assure you that he deserved much worse, but this was… more convenient.]_

Framing a man and running an art heist was more _convenient_?

“We’re _always_ looking for someone,” Henrik shoots back, but he’s beginning to relax. A familiar topic and routine must ease him—though he should know better, when he’s in a room with Lehnsherr. “That’s what we _do_.”

“Then this request shouldn’t surprise you.”

It doesn’t. Henrik doesn’t make any effort to hide his ease with the topic, and though his eyes continue scanning the portrait and Lehnsherr with equal focus, he doesn’t approach anything like surprise at the sight of either of them. 

But… why the portrait? He knows what it looks like. It hangs on the wall of his bloody office, for godsake. Why split time between Erik and a decoration he already knows well?

_[Whatever’s wrong, Charles, it would be beneficial to both of us if you’d postpone your internal crisis until after I’m finished here. You’re beginning to fidget, and while you may have failed to notice, Henrik has a keen eye for detail.]_

And then there’s Lehnsherr himself: lingering at the corner of the desk, painting abandoned for now, with his hands tucked in his pockets, staring unabashedly at a man he’d called a friend. Someone with such a small amount of emotional room for anything beyond anger can’t possibly be sentimental. _But_ —there’s no easy explanation for why he hasn’t outright demanded the benefits of the telepathy now within his reach. Unless he enjoys this legwork, his actions border on foolish. _  
_

All the same, Lehnsherr makes a fair point: Henrik’s gaze has begun to skitter to the side, eking out a few seconds of surveillance before turning most of his consideration back to Erik.

And then—bloody hell, he’s still concerned with the painting.

The next level of Henrik’s mind unpeels easily, opening up under the softest mental prompt. Digging far in will hardly be necessary—not when this layer—just below the surface, as though he’s afraid to think these thoughts _too_ obviously in Lehnsherr’s presence—of Henrik’s mind is all-but screaming with the thoughts.

Oh. _Interesting_. A hidden safe behind a painting? Dreadfully cliché, but perhaps effective. Erik would know more about that. Probably he’d also know a good deal about the names written on the paper within the safe, but Henrik—oh, bless, what a good match he is for Lehnsherr: both of them are paranoid as hell, and far too fierce about guarding their own information. It’s a wonder they ever found a way to work together in the first place. Stupid, though: he can’t know much about Erik if he’s still harboring concern that Erik might be in league with the men on that list. Money and greasing pockets may be vastly effective, but Erik, after what he’s been through at the hands of those men, would never consent to willingly work for them.

Unfortunately, telling Erik about that list is as good as ensuring the death warrant of those men. But… Henrik intends to—goodness, really? Selling off those names seems rather crass, though the mixture of an honest, visceral hatred for those men and a desire for profit is too tangled for even Henrik himself to unravel it within his own mind. They’ll die, and he’ll profit from their deaths. But that’s his hesitance: giving the names to Lehnsherr will mean a lack of pay-off, since Erik is far more inclined to deal out death himself.

They’ll die, though, one way or another. So: allow Henrik to profit from bloodshed, or… offer the information up to Erik.

Damn it all to hell. That’s no choice at all.

_[Erik.]_

_[Hmm?]_

_[There’s a safe behind the painting.]_

The sharp, defined shock of Erik’s surprise echoes in the mental airspace, though it never translates into his body language. He’s just as controlled as before, tense and ready to strike at a second’s notice, but perfectly held together until that necessity becomes a reality. 

_[He has a list—papers. Names.]_

_[Why is he hiding them from me?]_

Interesting. Lehnsherr might not trust Henrik, but a question like that indicates some level of trust. A shared bitterness over mutual wrongs, apparently—and selling names and profiting from this mess is an anomaly in that narrative. If Lehnsherr were to know Henrik has done that? This meeting would hardly be so genial.

 _[Paranoia.]_ An open, vague answer, and one not primed to paint a target on Henrik’s forehead.

But the answer passes musters, and Lehnsherr sighs, dipping a shoulder and turning to pace to the front of Henrik’s desk, where he squares up and faces Henrik head on. “I’d ask, Henrik. Really, I would, if I thought I’d get a straight answer.” From where he’s standing, he’s close enough to touch. The temptation is there: just lean forward in the chair and brush a few fingers down the ramrod straight line of Lehnsherr’s back. “But the fact that you have a safe hidden behind that picture leads me to believe you’d only lie.”

There’s truth to that. Already, Henrik’s mind is scrambling for a lie to deter Lehnsherr and steer him away from the safe. His mind is well aware that isn’t possible at this point, but it spins its wheels uselessly anyway. He’d do better to content himself with opening and closing his mouth with all the poise of a startled guppy—he’s certainly quite good at that. Pity about his composure: he’d been doing so well with it earlier in the meeting.

“Lehnsherr—“

“You used to be smarter than this: hoping I wouldn’t notice a _metal_ safe, Henrik?”

There it is: Henrik claws his way back to a snatch of that coolness, pulling his facial muscles back under control until he can credibly look Lehnsherr in the face again. “I don’t make a habit of volunteering information like that.”

“Too bad,” Lehnsherr answers, fixing him with one last sharp glance before turning his attention to the painting. He brushes his hands down the two horizontal edges of the frame, flicking off the dust at the edges with undisguised distaste. “You’ve been sitting on the information for some time, then?”

Henrik scowls, though he makes no move to rise from behind his desk. “Long enough.”

“ _Longer,”_ Lehnsherr growls out darkly. Lucky for Henrik, Erik is too absorbed with the task in front of him. A quarter of his awareness is hovering around Henrik’s watch and belt buckle, monitoring any sudden movements, but it’s a peripheral sense of caution, rather than an active concern. “I could have used this months ago.”

And that there—that’s a snap of regret. There’s a hint of memory tagging along behind it, but it’s difficult to snatch out of the swirling eddy of emotion and preoccupation. Snippets of Oxford, of their bonding….

Oh. Erik is inclined to believe that Henrik’s information might have kept him from coming to Oxford in the first place.

No Oxford, no bond.

 _[That makes two of us then]_ he snarls into Erik’s mind. _[_ I _didn’t want this either.]_

But Erik has no idea. His mind perks up at the raw anger in that tone, and he replays the thought in his head, with a pitch perfect imitation of the accent in which it was spoken, but it takes him a few moments beyond that to realize what memories and thoughts elicited that response—and there’s another pulse of surprise when he grasps exactly what he was thinking that caused that reaction. 

_[I didn’t mean I found_ you _distasteful, Charles.]_

No, of course not: there’s no question that Erik has enjoyed the sex with an enthusiasm that Erik himself probably wouldn’t have anticipated. It’s swirling nebulously in his mind: for Erik, what they’ve been engaging in—that _is_ intimacy. This is—bloody hell, this is the most functional romantic relationship Erik has ever had.

Apparently content with how he’s expressed himself, Lehnsherr’s mind jumps back toward the prospect of the safe and the list. It’s remarkable, how well he can compartmentalize. Most of his mental capacity is fixed on pulling the picture down from the wall and setting it aside; what isn’t focused on that continues hovering about the metal on Henrik’s person, monitoring for any sudden movements. 

Once the picture has been removed, the safe clicks and swings open soundlessly on what must be well-oiled hinges. Makes sense: Henrik’s mind has all the ragged edges that unchecked paranoia causes. Unlike Lehnsherr, he’s never learned to make that paranoia work _for_ him, rather than eating him alive.

“Having this list would have saved me untold amounts of time,” Lehnsherr informs Henrik, glancing up over the top of the page and leveling Henrik with a raised-eyebrow, thinned-lip stare. He flicks the top edge of the paper for good measure. Printed on sturdy stock, it hardly bends. “You knew I was looking for this.”

Henrik folds his hands in front of him; his knuckles are a shade too whitened for the movement to be as casual as he would probably like. “I knew you _had_ been.”

“And why didn’t you contact me? More to the point, why didn’t you go after these men _yourself?_ ”

No answer. Henrik merely stares at Lehnsherr from across the desk with a steely determination that darkens the shade of his eyes and chills the temperature of the room.

“I know you lost family to these men,” Lehnsherr continues, strolling away from the painting and toward Charles’ chair. With quick fingers, he waves the paper down in front of Charles, indicating for him to take it.

The men on this paper are dead. Maybe not yet, but they will be. They’re marked. And taking that paper, feeling the graininess of the parchment under his fingers, reading those names—it’s being complicit. Or it certainly aches too much like it. 

If he were to crumple the paper up right now, hold Erik still while he destroyed it, these men would live. They might not deserve to live, but they would, and he would never have to endure their deaths on his conscience.

And what then?

Neither would they ever be brought to justice. The things they’ve done, the people they’ve killed….

“Why protect them, Henrik?”

Though Henrik’s expression hasn’t changed, his skin has drained to a sickly milky color, and his lips have lightened several shades, tightening up like sun-dried worms. The anger hasn’t faded from his eyes, but the overall effect is a ghastly one, rather like an angry corpse.

“You think I don’t want them dead?” he asks quietly.

Lehnsherr shrugs. “From where I’m standing? It _does_ look that way.”

“I want them _all_ dead, Lehnsherr. But a few of them—they are more useful to me alive.”

Sickening, the satisfaction rolled up in that declaration. As ill as Henrik looks, he snaps out the words with undisguised gusto, and his eyes brighten to the point of a fever sheen when he leans forward over the desk, rising out of his chair and pressing his palms down to the surface.

“You’re blackmailing them?”

“I’m profiting from the spoils they took from _our_ people. I’ll bleed them dry before sending them to their graves. And when they go, it will be in ignominy. I want them to be _no one_ before I end them. But you—“ His voice cracks off, and he laughs. “You never saw the long game. You’d have killed them before I had the chance. So, no, Lehnsherr, _no_. I did _not_ contact you.”

And Lehnsherr doesn’t kill him.

Henrik is expecting an explosion. He’s tracking every shift of muscle and bone, and tensing at the slightest indication of any lunge forward. When Lehnsherr curls his fingers around the trim of the desk and leans forward, shifting his center of gravity past the point of his hands and out above the surface of the desk, Henrik tilts a few inches back before catching himself and ruthlessly cutting off what he must perceive as weakness.

From this angle, Lehnsherr’s face isn’t visible, and his backside, while appealing, doesn’t offer more than a cursory sum of his intentions: as tense as he is, the energy waiting to rip outward is contained and held well in check with no indication that he’s about to do lasting damage.

“We could have worked something out,” he tells Henrik quietly.

“Is that an invitation?” There’s a bit too much breath in those words for anything like real confidence to take effect, but one does have to hand Henrik credit for trying. Most men would have soiled themselves by now. 

Less than a minute, and the paper with the names could be destroyed. Freeze the scene and discard it, and nothing either of them are haggling over will matter.

Any longer in his hands and he’ll dirty it with sweat stains. Already, he’s dog-eared the left corner through repeated fiddling. A little more, and he could destroy everything….

“The men on this list, Lehnsherr—I don’t want them dead yet.”

Lehnsherr shifts backward, rocking onto the balls of his feet. Abruptly, the tension shifts: it isn’t gone, but it diffuses and simmers back to a lower level, still permeating the room, but at a lower level. “I don’t delight in watching pain,” Lehnsherr answers crisply, stepping back again and opening up his stance. This time—

Oh. There’s no preparing for that—for Lehnsherr to take him by the shoulder, fingers gripping hard enough to exert pressure down through layers of cloth. The touch isn’t unkind, but, strangely—impossibly, surely—there’s the sense that this is Lehnsherr trying to ground himself.

It doesn’t feel like he’s slipped into a sensory overload. But… it hardly seems possible that he’s merely looking for _emotional_ anchorage. A show, then? Or—what Lehnsherr would say is a show? But that grip—the execution of it is too real, and a quick brush Lehnsherr’s surface thoughts is confirmation aplenty: the want is nebulous and undefined, but, in some capacity, Lehnsherr _wants_ him. Not sexually. Not for manipulation. Just for another person, a trusted person, to offer a stability that hasn’t existed in years.

Lehnsherr would never be able to articulate it. So many people walk about without understanding what they’re feeling, and Lehnsherr would no doubt balk to hear that he’s quite like the general public in that respect.

“I want to see these men pay for their crimes, but I don’t need to be the one to personally pull the trigger. Not for any of them except Schmidt. Schmidt is _my_ kill, do you understand?”

Henrik never pauses, but simply nods—just once, briskly, but the understanding passing between them is solid. “I don’t have information on Schmidt.”

“No.” The hand loosens, merely resting now. “But I suspect some of the men on this list might.”

“Do as you like to them, but unless you take the time to destroy their networks and their legacy, leave them alive.”

“Done.” Sliding his hand, he cups the back of Charles’ neck between thumb and forefinger. Nothing in his mind indicates that he’s trying to be casually possessive, but, intent or not, he accomplishes that annoyingly well.

He’s _good_ at this. Lehnsherr is practiced at playing this game, even when he doesn’t realize he’s playing it. This is who he _is_ , engrained in ways so deep—fuck, a human being shouldn’t be so fundamentally wounded. What these men—what _Schmidt_ —did to him… For him to be like this, to be so harmed that it’s become a basic part of his motions….

Without breathing, he proffers the list up to Lehnsherr.

He shouldn’t. That’s a death warrant. He signed a death warrant. One look at a damaged man, and—

Fuck. This is being complicit.

This is being _guilty._

_[I can’t do this. I can’t help you with this.]_

And what is that thought supposed to accomplish? Erik will hardly back down on account of expressed hesitancy. But… Erik _does_ pause. The list is already pinched between his fingers, but for a moment his motion stalls and he jerks halfway through his attempt to turn back to face Henrik. Henrik doesn’t see it—there’s no sense of it in his mind—and Erik turns his hesitance into a full-out stop quickly enough to morph the halt into a seemingly intentional decision.

 _[I’m not asking you to help]_ Erik replies, his focus pulled by his fixation on the list, but still hovering, tethered by what feels to Charles remarkably like concern.

_[I gave that list to you.]_

There’s a spark of understanding, but it’s ruthlessly suppressed before it has time to fan into anything more substantial. Still, Erik doesn’t turn away, nor does he remove his hand, but rather turns it gentle, almost comforting, skimming his fingers along the skin near the collar line of the shirt. 

“We have another appointment,” he tosses out in Henrik’s direction, offering no inward contrition at the bald-faced lie. “We’d better be going.”

Henrik’s face finches. “The list—“

“You think I didn’t notice that you had two more copies in the safe?”

Hoped, though with no reasonable expectation of success, might be a more accurate description. “Keep me informed of your success, hmm?” Henrik says instead, though not without bitterness. He rubs his hand across his chin, just under his mouth, but no action that small has much hope of wiping away all evidence of his feelings.

Lehnsherr laughs, low and in the back of his throat. “You’ll know.”

By the trail of bodies, presumably. How civilized— _and_ very far from set in stone. If Lehnsherr thinks the remainder of this little jaunt around the globe is going to entail a wake of obviously strewn bodies, he had better revaluate. He will kill those men—there’s no stopping that, short of telepathic intervention—but he damn well will _not_ flaunt their deaths. If that’s the only thing about this that can be stopped, then at least that’s something. Not sufficient, but better than nothing.

“Eisenhardt?” Lehnsherr prompts, holding out his arm.

The casual expectation that is the basis of Lehnsherr’s act _does_ sting—but less than it did before. Lehnsherr had, true to his word, explained this time around. Henrik may think this arrangement nothing more than Lehnsherr using an ally in every sense of the word, but it’s an improvement on feeling as though the outward act is full reality. 

All the same… Lehnsherr wrong-footed is infinitely preferable to Lehnsherr when he feels fully in control. And for that reason alone: “Apologies, Mr. Sárkány. I would have much preferred this interview to have been less… _forceful_.” 

Henrik jerks as though he’s been shot. It’s understandable: stay quiet long enough, and a person can nearly disappear. That isn’t a new lesson, but it may bear remembering more often now than ever before. With Lehnsherr’s tendency to disregard subtlety, disappearing into the woodwork may prove a handy skill.

Coughing once to buy himself time, Henrik finally recovers and nods curtly. While he doesn’t accept the apology, per se, he composes himself sufficiently to add a sharp, “Mr. Eisenhardt.” More of a dismissal than an acknowledgement, but as Erik turns toward the door, Henrik’s consideration bounces back and forth between the two of them, rather than fixating solely on Lehnsherr.

_[You drew his attention to you—]_

_[Yes]_ he snaps back, cutting off Lehnsherr’s irritated prelude to a scolding. _[Because I_ exist _. If you’re going to drag me through this, I’m not going to make it easy for you to reduce me to a spare bit of baggage. What you’re doing has consequences for both of us—and if I need to call attention to myself to make you see that, I’ll damn well do it.]  
_

Lehnsherr must understand, or else he has simply elected to pick his battles and to recognize that any further protest will draw more of the attention that he wishes to avoid. He offers no response when Charles flexes his fingers—tight enough to make an impression, but carefully concealed by the wrinkle of fabric at Lehnsherr’s elbow. It wouldn’t do to have Henrik see.

Not when Lehnsherr has proven himself unnaturally willing to eliminate anyone who might have seen too much. It’s an unnecessary risk to gamble with what, precisely, “too much” means.

Henrik’s wife is no longer pinned where Lehnsherr left her: he must have released the metal at some point, or else dragged her to a less conspicuous position. The lack of noise hopefully indicates the first, though it doesn’t bear examining too closely.

 _[She’s in the kitchen]_ Lehnsherr murmurs into his mind, already reaching for the door and pulling it open. He ushers Charles through first, though not before he glances though the open door and onto the stoop, flicking his gaze over the street outside and then back again to the entrance they’ve just left. _[On the phone. Nothing to worry about. She knows better than to call the police.]  
_

As though the police are the most concerning aspect of this situation.

But, for all his reassurance, Lehnsherr is nagged by a small twinge of unease. The feeling is nothing obtrusive—and it could be attributed to Lehnsherr’s usual ill temper—but the sense of his mind, while always ordered and sharp, feels just that bit keener, aimed with a purpose, and focused unsettlingly on Henrik’s wife.

“Hurry up,” Lehnsherr mutters suddenly, shifting his grip to Charles’ elbow where he closes his fingers, loosely at first, but more firmly when he’s not immediately obeyed. So much for the pretense of manners.

_[What’s wrong?]_

Pressing his mind a little closer, he flicks through a few of Lehnsherr’s surface thoughts. They peel back easily enough, all paper thin and layered, complimenting each other and fitting cleanly into place. So few minds are like this, with thought after thought so neatly compressed and efficiently addressed, with a kind of self-control that rivals a well-sorted filing system. Those files, though—Lehnsherr is flipping through them with increasing speed as he scans the street; takes in Charles’ posture; considers whom Henrik’s wife might call. He is nervous; confident; as careful as they come, but _[I wouldn’t have missed some sign Henrik might have given her—]_

When the first shot comes, it doesn’t come physically. There’s a rush of images and feeling, almost dull at first, but, within seconds, gushing forward and rising up until it’s crashing over Charles and rattling him about in his own mind with the backlash. Bloody hell, that’s—no one should feel that _much_ , like—like—

Pure, raw, primal _power._ The anticipation of it, and whoever it is, they’re on the verge of—

_Oh._

The realization drills into his skull the moment he reaches out to touch the minds in the area, just to see, and to be certain that Lehnsherr is right and Henrik’s wife is no threat. This… _thing_ , this wave of emotion, _this_ is what it feels like when a person intends to take the life of another in his hands, and play god: the thoughts of the trigger, of how he and Lehnsherr look in the crosshairs—

“Move!” The word wrenches its way out of his throat, but there’s no air left for more. The _intent_ of that mind burns, and he can’t breathe through it.

But Erik already knows. He lurches sideways, propelled by Charles’ harsh shove to his side, staggering a few steps, mind already kicking up into overdrive. _[Get cover, get down—]_ he throws out, hand closing around the nape of Charles’ neck and shoving him downward. _  
_

But there’s no time. The actual bullet, when it comes, is wide, but, even if it weren’t, Lehnsherr catches it and hurls it back the way it came. There’s a sharp cry, the flickering of a mind, and—nothing. 

Oh. _Oh._

Surely being shot can’t have hurt like _this_.

“Shit,” he gasps, sinking his fingers into Lehnsherr’s arm and yanking. The mind is just… gone. There’s nothing where there should be something, and it’s the horror of staring into the reality of death. Lehnsherr—shit, where is Lehnsherr? His arm is there, muscles flexing under Charles’ fingers and the clothes, but he only feels half human, and so much more like a calculated, well-oiled machine.

He means to shout another warning into Lehnsherr’s mind, to at least offer some sort of notice that there’s a second shot coming, but there’s no time.

No time at all.

It’s instinctual, this business of creating a physical link and grounding Lehnsherr. Any Guide would do it, and through the conduit between their minds—the vibrating, panicked knowledge that has gone mad with the situation—he can sense Lehnsherr’s senses sharpening, honing in on everything around him. Five gunman—no, six, with the dead man. Two toward the east, set to ambush around the street corner. The noise of their guns cocking sounds unnaturally close, the feel of the metal in their guns—everything is so exquisitely, dangerously vivid.

Deadly, too.

They’re blocked off. Lehnsherr’s mind hisses the truth, raking over every ounce of metal on those men, even as he acknowledges that he may not be able to neutralize them all at once. All it takes is one good shot. One missed bullet. No amount of vicious confidence that _he could stop a bullet_ will catch the four extras that are sure to be fired.

Everything is so _much_ , and so _present_. Pulling out of Lehnsherr’s mind is the only option, and Charles tugs back, gasping at the sudden cessation of _everything_. Hold the link steady, keep Lehnsherr anchored, but, fuck, he can’t touch his mind too, not right now, not if he wants to stay sane and avoid falling into the same enhancement of sensation that Lehnsherr comes by naturally, just from being a Sentinel.

There is no _just_ about it. It is not something to be described as “just,” or “easy,” or—

“Get back in the house—“

But he ducks around Lehnsherr’s grip, flipping over onto his back where Lehnsherr has crouched over him. The movement smacks his arms up against Lehnsherr’s chest, and Lehnsherr grunts at the contact, but, beyond that, gives no indication that it’s anything other than an irritation.

“What are you—?” Lehnsherr snarls, snapshotting through his mind with all the ways that this new position is a vulnerability, even as he’s stretching out, wrapping his senses around the existence of those men—the noises of their breathing, the feel of the metal rubbing against his senses, the hint of movement where one man ducks out from cover to shoot—

No normal man could catch that movement quick enough to stop it. But Lehnsherr has now stretched so far beyond mere normal human senses that it would be foolish to evaluate him so simply. Too far now to pull himself back.

Too far now for this to mean anything but death for every single one of those men. Maybe a week ago they would have gotten lucky, and gotten a bullet in Lehnsherr just due to sheer numbers. Conceivably they still could. But the guarantee that they _will?_ That sort of luck ran out with the imprint.

Five minds, on the verge of snuffing out.

He could let Erik do it. It would even be justified. These men are in the process of trying to kill them. But—if Erik slaughters these men the way his senses are churning forward to do, they’ll have a bloodbath in the street, and, Sentinel or not, how far will they get with the whole city on high alert? There’s one body already, but that can be fixed, or at least explained.

“No,” he snarls, latching his hands onto Erik’s shoulders and grinding his fingers down into the rounded flesh and muscle.

And Lehnsherr stutters, knocked about in whatever trance he’s in, just enough that his gaze skips down onto Charles’ face. His eyes are zoned out, hardly seeing—seeing too _much_ —but the pause is sufficient for Charles to hurl his own consciousness out, to wrap his mind around every one of those men, and to simply switch them _off_. 

Bloody hell. It hurts, this intent to kill that’s consumed their minds. These men—fuck, there’s a certain high that comes with being on the verge of killing. Their minds are clouded with it, horrible and toxic and determined, and even when Charles drills his will into their minds— _get up, walk away—_ the sting of their intent slices through his mind.

And Erik—he must hang on to Erik, keep him from tipping beyond himself.

No time for shame at the thin, pained cry that wheezes out of his throat, or at the warm tickle of tears on his cheeks, pooling in the dips under his eyes. There’s Erik’s harsh gasp and half-confusion, half-realization as he begins to suspect what’s happening, but all of that is lost down under the desperation needed to hang on to five minds that want to kill, and to convince them to walk away.

But they do. Though the pause lasts nearly a lifetime, they turn, all of them—though Lehnsherr can most likely feel the physical reality of that better than he can—and begin to leave. He follows them for near a minute after, beating the command into their skulls over and over again— _keep walking, go away—_ until, finally, his mind cramps and he has to release.

“Shit—“ he gasps, finally, _finally,_ allowing his head to drop back to the pavement, and his hand—when had he raised it?—to fall limply away from his temple, sprawling instead just to the right of where Lehnsherr’s arm is bracketing him in.

Yes. Lehnsherr.

“Concentrate on me.” He’ll have to be forgiven if the words sound half-hearted and wrung out. As a Guide, reigning back in a Sentinel with fully extended senses is purportedly the main event, but here they are, functioning as though it’s a mere afterthought. Exhaustion and a half-hearted delivery had best simply be accepted. “Here, look at me." 

Eventually, Lehnsherr should be able to pull himself back on his own. Not now, though. _Obviously_ not now. And, even when he does reach that point, he’ll always feel vaguely disoriented after using his powers, will probably sport a mild headache—both of those, until Charles steps in and puts him right.

They’re linked. There’s no getting around that.

Cupping Lehnsherr’s cheek, he flexes his fingers gently against Lehnsherr’s skin, catching them against a bit of stubble. This would be far easier if done in conjunction with his telepathy, if he were to reach out and feel Lehnsherr’s thoughts, rather than running on feeling and instinct as—

As all other Guides must satisfy themselves with doing.

In some ways, that’s a rather sobering thought. To do this without telepathy—how does anyone manage?

Much like he’s managing right now, it would seem. There’s simply not enough energy left in his mind to bother with Lehnsherr’s thoughts. Touch and instinct will have to do, and, by some miracle, it would appear that _is_ sufficient: Lehnsherr startles at the touch and concentrated anchoring, blinking rapidly and leaning forward with a groan to drop his head down against Charles’ neck. His breath huffs out, warm and a little humid against Charles’ skin, and, if Charles had more energy, it might have been enough to make him shiver.

“There now…” Raising his hand from Lehnsherr’s cheek, he brushes it sluggishly through his hair, pausing a bit toward the back where the roots are damp with sweat and the ends are beginning to curl.

“Are you all right?” Lehnsherr murmurs, nudging him with his forehead.

“You need to—“

But that thought never finishes: there’s a truly horrid stab of pain, and he blinks against it, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Not surprising, that: an overextension of telepathy has, in the past, led to migraines, and he’s surely never done anything nearly as insane as delving into the minds of five men on the brink of assassination. Controlling a room full of drunken academics, dipping in and out of the thoughts of students in his lecture, erasing the memories of the unfortunate usher who caught him _in flagrante_ in the coat room at the theatre—that’s all nothing compared to what this required.

“You need to get us someplace… else,” he finishes lamely. Lehnsherr is meant to be good at this sort of thing, yes? Finding safe places to go to ground, avoiding the world and anyone who might come knocking….

Good, then, that Lehnsherr is very quickly coming back to himself: his limbs are tensing back up, and his eyes are tracking normally again. Less favorable that he’s using that regained normality to very obviously note just how drained Charles has become. “You’re not all right,” Lehnsherr snaps almost accusingly. “Why—?”

“Shut _up_.” Lehnsherr can spew his bullshit accusations later. “Just… get me up.”

He’s obliging about that, at least, working an arm under Charles’ back and more or less lifting him to his feet with minimal help when Charles clamps his hands down on Lehnsherr’s biceps and hangs on. The world tips alarmingly, and he has to blink rapidly and swallow against the saliva rushing into his throat to keep from vomiting. “Was it Henrik…?”

But Lehnsherr just shakes his head, scowling. “More likely his wife. Probably Henrik’s men, but…” He trails off and grinds his teeth until his jaw pops. “It doesn’t matter. Not right now. We’ll return to the hotel—“

“There’s a body around the corner. We need—“

Lehnsherr hasn’t dropped his arm, and it remains hooked around Charles’ waist; he flexes his hand, molding it to Charles’ hip and tugging him forward toward the curb. “We really don’t.”

No, of course not, because what harm could it possibly do to leave a _corpse_ lying in the street? Surely a solid plan.

Between the headache and Lehnsherr’s insanity, it’s a wonder the capacity to put one foot in front of the other—let alone think—hasn’t blinked out of existence entirely. Pulse after pulse after pulse of pain, and does the sun have to be quite so menacingly bright? 

Does Lehnsherr have to be quite such an ass?

“That’s a public street,” he snaps, stumbling along and resting far too much weight against Lehnsherr. It’s bloody pathetic, but—the pavement shivers, and just because that’s an optical illusion brought on by the headache doesn’t make walking any less treacherous. Lehnsherr is firm and solid and _there_ , and right this second, that is comforting in a way best not examined too closely. “I’m going to be sick.”

To Lehnsherr’s credit, he does pause immediately, bringing them to a standstill against the corner of a build. Good. The stone is cool and soothing, and the roughness provides a distraction when Charles grinds his fingertips against it. Concentrate on the pain there, rather than on the pulsing headache. Very good. That’s a little better. Marginally.

“All right?” There’s a distinct ripple of relief from Lehnsherr, probably brought on by realizing the wave of sickness is going to pass without the promised vomiting. Can’t blame the bastard for that, really.

But blaming him for thinking so loudly? Yes. It’s not helping. No emotions. No thinking. Only quiet, please. Not something found in the middle of Budapest, but it’s so badly needed and—

“It’s a side street,” Lehnsherr answers. Right. As if that’s meant to mean something. What is he talking about? It’s—oh, the body _._ Shit, the _body._

Apparently, Lehnsherr takes his low groan as permission to continue on: he’s already begun drawing them both forward again, slipping around the corner of the building and back toward the main road. The throbbing pain persists, but it’s manageable now, at least for the moment, and if he can’t quite keep his focus on the way in front of him, at least Lehnsherr is unlikely to allow him to wander off and smack into something.

“They’ll—“ He squeezes his eyes shut and, humiliating as it is, leans fully against Lehnsherr, who, thankfully, simply readjusts his hold and says nothing. “They’ll find the body.” 

“Yes. Soon, I’d imagine. Or Henrick will. He’ll know by now what his wife has done. Bastard stayed hidden in his house, shut the door behind us—“

“Think that was his wife, actually.”

“How would you know?” And he does sound genuinely curious.

“Don’t. Just a guess.”

Lehnsherr pauses. The slight catch in his step would seem to suggest he’s had his attention piqued, but the pause is more pregnant than it is worried, which, at this point, is an odd sort of comfort. “Are you all right?” he asks finally, and—somehow, he actually sounds as though he _means_ it. 

Extortion, blackmail, and a shootout, and _now_ he’s concerned.

Insanity at that level is all but an engraved invitation for a snappish reply, but—lying isn’t going to get them somewhere quiet, and, whatever else he’s been so far, Lehnsherr’s _does_ , it seems, truly care to know the answer to any direct question that he asks. “I need to lie down.”

Yes. Badly.

Such a statement is to Lehnsherr little more than an admission of weakness, surely, and, more likely, an invitation to take control. There’s no mistaking _that_ inclination in how his voice firms up and his grip shifts, more business-like than it was before. “We’ll go back to the hotel and regroup.”

“Regroup—?” Oh, that’s dreadful, too high a pitch for a grown man trying to be taken seriously. “You—fuck, you _killed_ a man, and you think—“

“Shut up.” A slight shake; Lehnsherr guides them back onto the main road. Amazing, but, from what’s visible between the shifting, dizzying perception offered by his mind at present, it would appear that no one else on the street finds their sudden appearance or their odd, staggering movement overly bizarre. It’s difficult to tell when trying to overhear hurts so much, but there’s nothing obvious, so maybe… but they’ll surely notice _something._

“They’re going to remember—“

“Yes. When someone starts asking questions. But not now.”

Asking questions about the body. Lehnsherr killed a man. He _killed_ a man.

“Could we—“ If his stomach would only stop rolling… “A cab?”

“No. Just keep a hold of me. I won’t let you fall.”

No, but that will do little to help if consciousness fails altogether. “I _can’t_.” It sounds pathetically like a whine, but, god help him, the pain isn’t easing to the point where walking the distance to the hotel is feasible. “Lehnsherr—“

“A cab isn’t safe.” 

And maybe it isn’t. That’s not quite so unbelievable a prospect now as it was before. Lehnsherr’s certainty that a gunman could be lurking in any shadow no longer seems far fetched at all—why not danger in a cab too? But that doesn’t change the sheer torture that walking home promises to hold.

“People—they’ll notice us like this too, walking to the hotel.”

“What, when they think you’re drunk?” He huffs, dismissing the question easily. “They won’t.”

“ _You_ said they would, once someone starts asking questions.” 

The hand at his hip closes a small amount more firmly than before, and one of Lehnsherr’s fingers slips through a belt loop. That hold still isn’t forceful to the point of bruising, but the hint of temper is there.

Pathetic though it might be, he drops his head against Lehnsherr’s shoulder. “A cabbie _might_ remember us. But people sure as hell _will_ if I black out two blocks from now and you have to carry me the rest of the way.” 

There must be a grain of logic in that—the kind of logic Lehnsherr favors. The kind that weighs probabilities and dangers, and doesn’t factor in personal need anymore than necessary. God only knows what he sees in the reality just placed before him, but Lehnsherr pulls up short and sighs, finally nodding. “Fine.”

Thank god for small miracles.


	8. Chapter 8

He could kill Henrick’s wife for this: Charles, flat on his back in bed. God only knows how he managed to make it back to the hotel at all before he’d fainted dead away. Five minutes after leaving the scene of the shooting, it had been damningly obvious that Charles wasn’t going to make it to the hotel without a cab. Hailing a cab from near a murder scene? Undeniably foolish. But… there really hadn’t been a viable alternative.

They’ll need to leave, of course. Fine. Henrik’s list has already provided more information than he'd originally hoped for here in Budapest. Leaving now is no great loss. And Charles will simply have to sleep on the train. A few more hours here, and then they’ll need to move. Not a good idea with Charles in this state, but there’s no better alternative. An overnight train, perhaps? Let him sleep while they travel….

“Damn you, stop _thinking_.”

Ah. And so awakens sleeping beauty.

Charles doesn’t look quite the picture of genteel innocence and purity that such a title ought to evoke, but there’s something surprisingly endearing—and worrying—about the half slurred words and how he can’t manage to remove his face from the pillow to utter an insult.

“Go to hell, Lehnsherr.”

So eloquent. But, that’s probably to be expected when, if available evidence is to be trusted, Charles’ brain is painfully scrambled. “You ought to try to drink something. Here.” Plucking a glass up off the table, he heads over to the tap and, after turning it on with his powers and flicking his fingers under the stream until he’s sure it’s run cold, he fills it about halfway and pads over to where Charles remains prone in bed, glaring up at him with the one eye that isn’t mushed into the pillow. “No, it isn’t drugged,” he snaps when Xavier opens his mouth, no doubt on the verge of the accusation. And then, more gently, “Are you feeling any better?”

A bit of the anger rushes out of Charles. He sighs and accepts the glass with unsteady hands, sloshing a few drops of water over the side and onto the sheets. He doesn’t seem to notice, or, at the very least, he doesn’t care. “Yes. Better.”

“Does this happen whenever you use your powers this extensively?” With some reluctance—there’s no guarantee Xavier won’t try to lash out at him—he settles himself down on the edge of the bed.

Miraculously, Xavier doesn’t protest.

Though, he does roll his eyes—and immediately flinches at the pain that causes.

“Come off it,” he snaps, shaking off the pain. “I’m hardly going to kick you out of bed _now_.”

Oh? A nice sentiment. “You’ve never kicked me out of bed _at all_.” The touch of smugness that creeps into the tone of those words probably isn’t strictly _kind_ , especially when Charles is ill, but it’s satisfying knowing that, whatever else he may rant about, Charles hasn’t found cause to complain about _that_.

The venomous glare that earns him over the rim of the glass as Xavier begins to down the water in deep gulps would suggest that the truth of that, while it infuriates Xavier, is not lost on him. 

“No.” Xavier fingers the empty glass, tracing a finger around its edge. “To answer your question. This seldom happens. It was just—those men were in the middle of _murdering_ someone—

“Of murdering _us_.”

“—and there’s a dreadful, disgusting high that comes with that,” Xavier pushes on, ignoring the interruption with nothing more than a disdainful tilt of his head. “They were so locked in on what they were doing, and what they were doing was so heinous—and I was caught in the backlash. And—I felt that one man die. His mind shut off. It hurts to feel that. Or, to not feel it—to feel nothing, where there was a mind.” Huffing a burst of air out past his lips, he mashes his palm against his forehead, grinding it there. “I don’t know. Something like that. I can’t explain.”

“I think you’ve explained just fine.”

A grimace. “My shielding isn’t right. Usually I can block things out, but right now….”

“You can hear me thinking. Yes, you said.”

“On and off. It’s getting better. A day or so, and I’m sure it will fade.”

“We don’t have a day to wait.”

“What?”

Those blue eyes narrow suspiciously, and—does he even know how he appears when he purses his lips like that? Probably not. Xavier seems to vacillate between knowing far too well what impact he has on people and using it to his advantage, and being astoundingly naïve about the effect of his actions and appearance.

“We’re taking the overnight train to Rome.”

“What?” Slamming the empty glass down on the nightstand, Xavier flips over and, despite the pain it probably causes him, rolls himself into a sitting position on the bed, close enough that their knees are nearly brushing.

“As you so aptly pointed out, Charles, there is a dead man lying in the street.” Granted, he’s probably not lying in the street _anymore_. “We took a cab straight away from near the crime scene. You think the police won’t check cab records? If it were just me involved, I would have left hours ago.”

“If it were just _you_ involved, there would be _six_ men lying in the street,” Xavier snarls, pushing himself awkwardly to his feet. He sways precariously, and the brief urge to reach out and stop him surfaces, but Xavier certainly wouldn’t thank him for it right this moment. He’d probably prefer to brain himself against some piece of furniture. Thankfully, he does manage to stagger over to the bathroom all on his own, and, yanking the handle of the tap a little viciously, run the water. After rolling up his sleeves, he begins splashing it onto his face.

“Several of the names on Henrik’s list are in Rome.”

Xavier spits a bit of water into the sink and gropes blindly for a towel, wordlessly accepting one when Erik hands it to him. “Nazis, then?” Interesting: a bit of the anger in his voice has eased. The snappishness remains, but Charles, naïve as he might be, is, thank god, not foolish to the point of believing that such scum is worthy of his sympathy. His mercy, perhaps, but that’s a finer line, and one more based in action than in outlook.

“Yes. Or those that helped them and might know their current whereabouts.”

“I won’t help you kill—“ No, of course not. God forbid he recognizes the necessity of taking action to remove those things that need to be removed. Unfortunate. It would make things easier if Charles could recognize that retribution for these men so often must come from outside the law.

“After a few days in Rome, I would hope that we’ll have reached the point where I can leave you behind at a hotel long enough to take care of things myself. Alone.” 

And how can _that_ possibly be disagreeable? But Charles merely blinks; a few of the stray drops of water on his face plop down onto his shirt, staining it with fat, dark dots. “You could very well have died this time,” Charles says slowly, and while he’s not glaring, there’s a distinct irritation on his face. It pulls his features as tight as is possible in such a soft face, and siphons off some of the sweetness. “If you’d caught yourself in a zone—it doesn’t matter how good you are at what you do. Until you’ve learned to control your abilities, you could find yourself a sitting duck, stuck with your senses extended beyond your control. And even when you do learn control, your abilities will still always be augmented by my presence. And you think—“

“Do you _want_ to come with me?”

A sharp pause. And then: “No.”

Good. It’s a stupid thought, especially when it would be _so much easier_ if Charles would understand the necessity of what must be done. But… there’s a comfort in knowing that he doesn’t. Short of taking pleasure in killing—and he will see to it that Charles _never_ develops that taste—there is no reason why Charles should find the situation favorable.

“Then don’t complain. I’ll get us safely to Rome, and then we’ll take a few days to work on the bond. The men on that list have no means of knowing that I’m searching for them, and letting them marinate in their ignorance for a little longer won’t hinder a successful resolution to my investigation.”

“Investigation,” Xavier parrots, nearly—dear god, is he pouting? “You have a marvelous way with euphemisms, my friend.”

Friend? Small chance. Xavier has made no secret of his dislike, and… it’s difficult to blame him for that. It shouldn’t matter. It _doesn’t_ matter. There will be time enough later, once Schmidt has been eliminated, to make peace with Xavier. For the time being, keeping him alive is far more important.

That doesn’t mean they _need_ to be at odds, simply for the sake of it.

“I’ve packed our things already.” Not that they were ever properly unpacked last evening, since… _other things_ had taken precedent. No one short of a saint would have unpacked luggage while Charles’ body was on offer.

“I don’t—“ But he bites off the words, and his face twists again, though this time he’s turning away before the expression becomes fully readable. Stalking across the side of the room, he heads for where his suit jacket was discarded on one of the chairs, tossed there when they’d staggered into the hotel room a few hours earlier and Xavier had barely taken the time to discard that one piece of clothing before collapsing on the bed, swallowing some pain killers, and passing out.

“What?”

But Xavier doesn’t rise to the prompt. He shrugs on the suit jacket--a tweed monstrosity with honest-to-god _elbow_ _patches_ \--and, once it’s on, rolls his shoulders back and tilts his head to the side, stretching out the muscles there. And… showing the bond mark.

Located high on his throat, it’s a bright splash of color against otherwise pale skin. Already it’s begun scabbing, and in another few weeks or so it will have healed into a cleanly closed smear of red. If the train to Rome weren’t leaving soon—the idea of setting his teeth down over that mark again, licking at it, making sure it’s healing properly….

Indulgence, all of it. But… there’s really very little reason for denial. They’re bonded; may as well enjoy the benefits.

It’s a strange feeling, wanting something and being able to _have_ it.

Xavier must catch his stare: he stops, backing up a step and steadying himself with a hand on the table. In the afternoon light he looks a little wan, but that’s largely due to how much his head must be hurting. Hmm. They’ll get on the train, get a private compartment, and then Xavier can sleep this off properly. It’s unfortunate to have to move him so soon, but his safety is more important than his comfort: a headache can be fixed, but a bullet to the head cannot.

“We need to go, Charles.”

Xavier startles again, but, after taking a deep breath, he steps forward and reaches for the suitcase lying on the chair. “Fine,” he answers stiffly, not looking at Erik.

Fine is not the word to describe what Charles is presumably feeling, but his cooperation is a good first step.

Once this damn bond stabilizes, there will be time to make things different. There’s no denying Charles’ usefulness in the situation with Henrik, but… it wasn’t worth it. Stupid—any advantage should be exploited—but Charles—if he is willing to cruelly use Charles, what difference, then, is there between him and men like Schmidt? Schmidt never recognized goodness, or, if he did, it was only to snuff it out and torture it to see how long it would last.

The things he would have done to Charles.

It’s better not to consider it.

Schmidt will die. He will die for what he did and for everything he could ever do. And he will never touch Charles. No one like him will. If the price of that is infuriating Charles in the short term, then so be it.

“I’ll take the suitcases,” he tells Charles, reaching out and plucking it from his hold. “You get the bag.” It’s lighter, easier to carry.

Any other time, Charles would probably make the effort to consider that a slight, but, in this case, he scoops the bag up off the floor and relinquishes the suitcase with an expression perilously close to relief.

Heaving the other suitcase up from the bed, Erik nods toward the door and Charles, after one further glance behind him, proceeds through it. His gait is stiff and pained, and he shies away from the harsh lighting in the hallway, but he seems all right. Tolerably all right, anyway.

That passable imitation of health holds up until they find themselves in the midst of the train station’s crowd. Once there, Charles grows increasingly pale and drawn, quieter than he’s been so far, and prone to eyeing groups of people with a pained pinch at the edge of his eyes. He doesn’t protest when Erik floats one of the suitcases with his powers—ignoring the looks of passerbys—and settles his newly freed hand at the small of Charles’ back, drawing him forward when the commander whistles for boarding. The lack of protest is… unsettling. Xavier has been many things so far, but compliant is not one of them.

By the time they find their compartment, he looks undeniably ill.

“Here.” Giving Xavier a nudge, he motions for him to sit down on one of the cots. There are four in the room, stacked two high, but they’ll be the only ones in the compartment. Money is no obstacle—a perk of draining Nazi accounts—and times like these, it’s worth paying the ridiculously exorbitant fee necessary to ensure that they won’t have to put up with any nosy traveling companions. The thin mattresses and overly starched sheets are irritation enough, but their saving grace is that they don’t talk, unlike people. 

“Hell,” Xavier mutters, sinking down and dropping his elbow to his knee, where he can prop his arm up and grind his palm against his forehead, fruitlessly trying to knead away the pain.

“Is it any better?”

“The crowds aren’t helping.”

“We’ll be headed off soon.” Ten minutes to departure, going by the station clock. Not soon enough. The crowds are hurting Xavier, and that’s unacceptable if it can be avoided.

Taking a step forward, he moves in, close enough that only a few inches separate them. There’s no reaction to the proximity, which is as good as an invitation—or likely the best he’ll get—and so he moves in a few inches further until their knees brush. “You saved those men’s lives, you know.” They weren’t worth saving, but their continued existence seems like the sort of thing that matters to Charles.

Xavier stops grinding his forehead into his palm; he doesn’t drop his head, but he does glance up at Erik, staring up from under long eyelashes—those damn _eyes_ —and sighing. “Don’t pretend you care.”

“I don’t. But _you_ do.”

Xavier snorts and looks away. “Yes.”

“I don’t kill because I like it, Charles.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” It comes out harsher than he’d meant, but the sentiment remains the same. For someone as soft as Xavier, there’s likely no distinction between enjoying the satisfaction of knowing that something disgusting no longer exists, and enjoying the actual killing itself.

The question pushes just far enough to get a reaction: Xavier presses out a harsh burst of air and leans back, propping his arms behind him and dropping his head backward; he slowly rotates it back and forth, as though trying to shake off some horrible memory. How quaint. He’ll soon learn that memories aren’t that easy to shake.

But… the line of his _neck._ The bond bite—not to mention the smattering of other love bites—and Xavier’s damnable, foolish trust that he can open up his body like this without worry of threat. He’s right. Of course he’s right. He won’t hurt Xavier, but what if Xavier closed his eyes like this in a public place? Dropped his head back, practically inviting an enemy to slice a knife across his throat….

Later, they’ll work on this lack of self-preservation.

Reaching out, he slides his hand around behind Xavier’s head, threading his fingers through his hair and cradling the weight. Xavier’s neck relaxes, and he allows Erik to hold him, whispering out a breath and releasing the tension out of himself with that stuttered exhale. “I need to call my advisor about my thesis.”

Of all the foolish things. But, it means very much to Xavier, this matter of getting this degree, and what harm will it do? It may even give him a means to occupy himself while he’s cooped up in Italy. “The place in Italy will have a line.”

Xavier hums thoughtfully. “I’ll run up quite a charge.”

“Money isn’t an obstacle.”

“You keep saying that. Where _did_ you get your funds?”

Lying would be the safest option to a question like that, but, eventually, Xavier does deserve to have answers to those questions that _can_ be answered. There’s no chance that they’ll part ways, and keeping Xavier in the dark about most things is quickly going to become an impossibility.

Better that he knows now.

“Especially in the decade after the war, the men I hunted after I left the Mossad tended to keep a large amount of portable cash on their person, or near at hand in their residences. My ability to sense metal does, as you’ve seen, make finding a safe particularly easy if I decide to go looking.”

“But it’s not as though you can simply stroll up to the bank and make a deposit—“

Charming, that Xavier apparently believes that only upstanding citizens can use banks. If he stopped to think about it, he might possibly realize that most countries tend not to ask where the large sums of money come from, so long as it’s being deposited in an institution that is linked to their economy. “As a matter of fact, I _can._ In several countries.”

Xavier still hasn’t opened his eyes. “But you’re a wanted criminal.”

“Yes. A criminal, and a relatively wealthy one, at that. Banks tend to care more about the latter than the former.”

After spending early childhood in a working-middle class family, that has taken some getting used to. Not like Xavier, who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He and his sister probably never had to worry about anything monetary in their lives.

“We’ll be in Rome by morning,” he tells Xavier, planting a hand on his shoulder and pushing. Charles tenses up at first, and his eyes flutter open, running up and down Erik’s body with suspicion, but he relaxes relatively quickly, and gives in to the hand pushing him, choosing instead to lie back on the bed. Nor does he fight it when Erik gets a hand under his ankles and lifts them up, tugging Xavier’s hips around until he’s properly laid out on the bed. “You ought to try to sleep.”

“And you?”

Sleep on a train, where breaking the door down is a matter of a well-placed kick? No, thank you. “I don’t sleep well on trains.”

“I’m beginning to get the impression that you don’t sleep well _anywhere_.”

Not true. He’d had an unsettlingly good sleep at the hotel in Oxford the night after they’d bonded.

The hissing release of the breaks brings the expected rush of relief.

It’s always like that, and has been for years now. There was no indication that anyone was looking for them specifically, and even less that they’d been followed to the train station, but being ambulatory again is always a comfort. Even the sense of the metal, releasing and beginning to roll forward, is satisfying and oddly soothing.

“Everything’s all right, then?” Xavier asks, echoing the sentiment. Either he’s catching the relief with his telepathy, or he was nervous himself. Probably the latter, given his headache.

“No one has connected us with what happened, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Xavier doesn’t truly seem to be asking much of anything so much as he’s fishing for words to fill the room and to smooth over his own relief. He does seem the type to be comforted by meaningless chatter.

“Come here.” There’s no reason to scoot further up the bed toward Charles’ head, but the words are out before a reason _not_ to move can crop up, and, anyway, what’s the harm in it? Xavier _is_ his husband.

Though he’s at first startled, Xavier settles after a moment, and, despite a certain tension in his muscles, he doesn’t fight when Erik lifts his head into his lap and combs his fingers down into Xavier’s hair, massaging firmly at his scalp and working to soothe away the tension.

“I felt his mind die.”

“He was trying to _kill_ us, Charles.”

Xavier’s fingers dig down into the blanket, flexing slowly. “I know.”

“I’m not sure you _do_.”

“Don’t presume to understand me,” he snaps. But the burst of anger burns itself out quickly, and, shuddering, he relaxes back down against Erik’s legs. “Of course I know he was trying to kill us,” he says eventually, though the words are hesitant, and probably taste sour in his mouth.

That may be true, but the reality of what killing _means_ is likely new to Charles—and, from what Charles has demonstrated so far, not a concept that he is finding easy to accept. “And have you ever felt that before from a mind?”

“No.”

The admission is clean and honest, and there’s something to be said for that. “It will take some time to realize that anyone could be that vicious. It’s not a fact that your mind will accept easily.”

Not until it _must_ accept it. Broken glass and yellow stars, racial slurs and hatred—but none of it was _death_ until the moment that bullet entered his mother’s brain. Until it happened, it felt impossible that a person would truly carry out that final step. No amount of academic knowledge could possibly prepare a person for witnessing the real thing in all its visceral horror.

“I _felt_ him die.”

“I know.”

Knowing is seeing his mother on the floor. Knowing is being forced to drag her body to the ovens. Xavier hasn’t had to _know_ so bitterly as that, but he _has_ been forced to look some measure of death in the face and confront its realness.

The thing is, it never should have happened. Xavier could have gone his whole life without that kind of horror, safe and tucked away in his wealth and in his safe little flat—but, like many things that shouldn’t happen, it did. The only thing that remains now is to take steps to ensure that the experience is never repeated.

“I won’t take you with me again,” he tells Charles as he tips his head back against the wall.

“You’ll need to.”

Need? There’s always that possibility. But he’ll work damn hard to avoid it. For now, assuming that he’ll succeed is the best of all possible options—that, and working his fingers down over Charles’ temples to massage at the muscles there, and, with any luck, head off the argument that Charles may be poised to make. “No. I won’t.”

Charles’ lips draw into a thin smile, and he closes his eyes, but the gentle press of skin on skin has knocked a bit of the argument out of him. “I suppose we’ll see.”

Knowing that Charles may very well be proven right is the most infuriating thing of all. Good intentions never did dictate circumstances, but, damn it, he _will_ do his best to keep Charles out of this. Charles is no good to anyone if his mind is torn, and if feeling one man die does this to him, what would happen if he were exposed to that on a greater level?

“You ought to sleep.” They’ll address this later, and only if—when—it becomes a necessity.

Charles hums in agreement and tips his head back, pressing it down against Erik’s lap, and—damn it all, that’s hardly what either of them needs right now. Charles likely doesn’t realize the effect it could have, but unless he’s willing to put out despite the headache….

Thankfully, Charles ceases his wiggling once he’s gotten himself into a more comfortable position, which presumably is what he was trying to do all along. It’s a bizarre contradiction, being in the presence of someone who is so… unaware. So blissfully ignorant of the effect he has, and that would be absurd all on his own, but it’s doubly absurd to realize that such a lack of awareness doesn’t preclude manipulation. In those few instances when Xavier _has_ realized his influence, he shamelessly tries to exploit it. Licking his lips, widening his eyes, that damned smile—he gets what he wants through a bumbling mixture of studied manipulation, general likableness, and a large dose of unawareness.

Granted, a large portion of what Charles does likely funnels straight off seeing his effect in people’s minds, rather than through truly _understanding_ why his actions have the results that they do. But… he doesn’t currently have the benefit of feeling the results of his actions in the minds around him. An interesting thought: outside of his telepathy, _does_ Xavier understand the connection between his own actions and the reactions of others? Anyone else has to rely on body language and circumstances to guess what those around them are thinking, but, for a telepath, those may be unfamiliar avenues of understanding.

Something to think on later, perhaps.

“You’ll feel better in the morning,” he tells Charles quietly, running his hand again through his hair. More lightly now, more intent on easing him down toward sleep.

Charles, already beginning to drift, pushes up into the touch like a cat seeking attention. No. He truly doesn’t recognize what he’s doing.

That is… somewhat terrifying.

“G’night,” Charles murmurs, and to just—drift off like this, with his head in someone’s lap….

It’s damned foolish, that’s what it is.

But Charles _is_ safe, whether he knows it or not. It may be the most basic form of trust possible—the idea of being physically safe—with little nuance and not much emotion to it, but Charles _is_ relying on him to keep them _both_ unharmed.

The man is a fool.

But… he isn’t wrong.

Whatever it takes to keep Charles safe, Erik will do it, regardless of whether or not Charles likes his methods.


End file.
